Through the Ages
by Servant of Anubis
Summary: Rome conquered the Gaulish tribes in 52 BCE, paving the way for 400 years of Roman rule, and shaping the future of a young nation-child whom history would come to know as France. War, political intrigue, lessons, assassination attempts, vicious sibling rivalries, and the attention of the most powerful empire in the world is enough to keep a boy busy for centuries.
1. Curse and Escape

_Late spring, 58 BCE_

The full moon hung clear and beautiful over the smooth glassy lake, its bright light competing for prominence with the huge bonfire on shore. The whole clan was here, as many as Gaul could summon within a week's time, decked out in their best attire, jewelry heavy with weight and symbolism clasped around necks and wrists, wound around heads and fingers. Her son was at her side, a miniature mirror of her solemn finery and stern visage, his blond hair swept back from his face and kept there by a circlet of beaten gold. She raised her hand, and the murmuring talk among those assembled died away.

"Word of deed travels faster than the swiftest horse, and unpleasant rumours can spring up like tangled briars in its wake. But such things nonetheless contain a grain of truth. Here it is the same." A pause; she wished it were a happier occasion. Her son glanced up at her slightly, waiting. He already knew.

"The Romans are marching." Instantly people stiffened, hands falling reflexively to the swords that hung at their waists, children old enough to understand shifting closer to their mother's skirts. "The commander Gaius Iulius approaches with five legions at his command, and we are his goal. He has no use for allies, no use for equals—he comes seeking conquest, to glut the purse of Rome with our bloodstained coins, to soak the soil with our tears and to fasten shackles on the wrists of the mighty. But he cannot have us." Nods, murmurs of agreement. "He will not have us. We will meet him with iron and strength, his glory will be found elsewhere or not at all, but he _will not _have us." A shout of approval.

"We curse them! We cast them down into the abyss, we make crooked their path, we ensnare them in foils and pitfalls, we curse them!" She stepped forward, her people drawing nearer as she began the chant, low and haunting:

"_Andedion uediíumi diíiuion risun… Artiu mapon aruerriíatin, mapon aruerriíatin… Lopites sní eððdic sos brixtía andiron…"_

Only the cackle of the flames sounded as she evoked the forces of the underworld, that place where the spirits of the dead dwell, ancient and powerful, older than her, older than her mother Celt, called to their aide. Someone started a steady drumbeat, and sharply she shifted tone, naming the Romans, the commanders, the generals, denouncing them, cursing them-

_"Lucion floron nigrinon adgarion! Aemilíon paterin claudíon legitumon! Caelion pelign! Claudío pelign, Marcion uictorin asiatícon aððedillí—"_

She sang damnation into the night, repeating their names in a chant, and the voices of her people joined her, the drumbeats multiplying and growing stronger, drawing people to move, to dance, her son shifting from her side into the throng, chanting and stomping with the rest—

"_Lucion floron nigrinon adgarion! Aemilíon paterin claudíon legitumon! Caelion pelign! Claudío pelign, Marcion uictorin asiatícon aððedillí—"_

Gaul moved with the force of curse, the power of her people's focus coursing through her like a living, thrumming thing, driving her chant, her fury—Rome, Rome how dare you threaten me? How dare you move against me? I was a fool to think that you would be satisfied with trading for what could be gained through war, and I will kill you for my mistake. You've decreed your own death!

She froze, a single point of stillness in the moving, shifting group, her people her people, and Rome at the gate— Eyes unseeing, she reached out, felt the pulse of power around her, caught it and twisted it in, the rage, the determination, the urgency and fear and now to _aim—_ Her people heard the words from her mouth overlaid with a power they could not describe, in a voice that was hers but wasn't:

"_Etic secoui toncnaman, toncsiíontío meíon toncsesit. Buetid ollon reguccambion, exsops pissíiumítsoccaantí rissuis. Onson bissíet luge, dessummiíis luge—" _

Her son heard the signaling phrase and picked it up, calling, "Dessumíis luge!" his fist in the air as he shouted. And the clan followed, fists raised, yelling, chanting, screaming the words that would seal the fate of the Romans- "_Dessumíis luge! Dessumíis luge! Dessumíis luge! Dessumíis luge!"_

And with a final roar of defiance, all voices came together and peaked _"Dessumíis luge!" _and Gaul crumpled to the ground in exhaustion, energy spent.

Her son was at her side in an instant, gentle hands on her shoulder, her arm, blue eyes searching hers.

She gave him a tired, reassuring smile. "I'm well, _gnath_."

He studied her for a moment more, heedless of the still shifting throng around them, before smiling. "Rome'll never beat us now," he said confidently as he helped her sit up.

A fleeting smile flickered over Gaul's face and failed to reach her eyes. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from his impossibly young face, and the look of puzzlement there made her heart ache. She pulled him into a hug, leaning her head against his as she felt his small arms wrap around her.

"He won't," she said softly, stroking his hair. "He can't."

_Late summer, 52 BCE_

The camp was not in chaos, but it was close. The buzz of tightly wound nerves made the air hard to breath, as warriors donned their armor and painted protective sigils over it,horses whinnying in reflected anxiety. The refugees that traveled with the camp, hoping for protection and food, helped where they could, the women trying to cook for far too many people with not enough supplies. Gaul packed some of those precious supplies away into saddlebags, giving the four men final instructions as they checked their gear.

"Straight north until you reach the shore, my seal will give you safe passage; the Morini will bear you across the sea—"

Small hands tugged on her trousers as she moved to another horse. "I don't want to go!"

Gaul didn't glance down. "You have supplies enough to reach them, if you travel quickly and don't delay—and you _won't delay_—"

"Mama, I'm not going!"

_My dear son_. She turned and crouched down, hands resting on his shoulders. He was already bundled up in his grey-green travel cloak, a hint of his sky blue tunic peeking out. It made his eyes even brighter. "You have to go." Her words were soft, but firm.

"No! I don't wanna!"

"Maponos. You are going. Rome is too close now—"

"I wanna fight!"

He was barely taller than a sword was long. "I know you do, _gnath_. And you will, when you're older—"

"I'm old now!" he shrieked and Gaul shook him sharply, just once. The tantrum stopped almost immediately, Maponos looking at her sullenly, pouting.

"Maponos. You will fight when you're older. But not now."

"But why do I have to go?"

_Because I would rather be eaten alive than risk you falling into Rome's hands_. "I have to keep you safe. You going to live with my sister, Britannia, you remember your aunt? You've met her before, when I took you trading—long blond hair, all of those little spotty freckles on her cheeks."

She wiggled her fingers at him for emphasis and he giggled slightly, nodding.

She smiled encouragingly. "You see? She'll take care of you. She has four boys herself, they're—"

"But you'll come get me as soon as you beat Rome, right?" he interrupted.

Gaul faltered, and then forced her smile back into place. "Of course."

She didn't mention the odds, and none of her men did either.

Gaul caught him under the arms and swept him up into a hug as she stood, burying her face in his hair, inhaling deeply, she wanted to remember everything. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, felt his small form hugging her with all his tiny might, and burned the moment into her memory.

"I love you, always." Her lips barely moved.

"I love you too, Mama, always."

She hugged him tighter, and would've stayed like that if he hadn't squirmed, trying to get lose. "Too tight—"

Gaul relaxed instantly. "Sorry." A difficult, awkward pause, before she forced. "Okay, time to go." The waver seemed incredibly obvious. She held Maponos out to a mounted warrior, Lugurix, the one she trusted most of those she assembled for this task, and caught his eye as he settled the small child in front of him on the saddle.

"Faster than Epona's favourite steed." Her eyes said what her lips did not: _he cannot be captured_.

Lugurix nodded gravely.

They saluted, clenched fists over their heart, Maponos with upheld empty palm. Gaul returned the gesture, and they wheeled and rode off through the camp, heading north. She watched until her vision blurred, and still did not look away.

Then she turned back to the immediate things, readying for battle, feeding the refugees, throwing everything she had at Rome. She did not let herself dwell on her son's smile, or the love in his voice, or the sight of him being borne away. Instead she focused on the aching hole left in her heart, and vowed to fill it with Rome's dying breath.

-o-

A new multichapter fic begins, exploring France's early childhood. The Gaulish chant from above is an actual curse used by the Gauls towards Rome, the translation of which is available in a link on my profile. The Swiss pagan folk metal band Eluveitie has a beautiful rendition of the curse as a sung chant, titled "_Dessumíis Luge"; _a link to the song can also be found in my profile. The song was a major inspiration for this story, in particular the opening scene, so I encourage you to give it a listen.

This fic will be updated on a Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule, so check back Wednesday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.


	2. Capture and Surrender

**Trigger warnings: **mild violence towards a minor, implied non-con

-o-

She stared down at the map in silence, eyes traveling over their positions, and Rome's.

Vercingetorix stood off to the side, his face a mask of stoicism. "It's the only thing to be done," he said grimly.

Gaul said nothing for a long time, before giving the smallest of nods.

-o-

Maponos and his escort rode in silence through the red and orange forest, the leaves a bright burning colour in the sunset. The chill September snuck into his clothes and he nestled back further against Lugurix, tugging his cloak around him. They would stop and make camp soon, and then he could curl up properly. There had been a lively debate when they first set out, whether it was better to travel during the day and camp at night, or camp during the day and travel at night. Night travel would make them harder to detect, provided they were careful during the day, but would cut their speed considerably, since neither they nor the horses could see very well at night. A single misstep could cost them a horse, possibly its rider, and force them to abandon the supplies the horse carried. In the end they chose to go by day, rest at night, as was customary. Doing so increased the chances that they would run into a Roman scouting party, but allowed them to travel at full speed, something their orders had insisted.

Secretly, Maponos hoped they would encounter a scouting party. Then he could fight the Romans, and when Lugurix saw how strong and brave he was, he could convince the commander to bring him back to Mama to help fight. She'd be so proud of him, her little warrior, already beating Romans. He smiled to himself at the thought, resting a hand on the tiny dagger at his waist, before twisting in the saddle to look at the rider.

"Lugurix, are you absolutely sure we can't go back and fight?"

The warrior exhaled heavily, eyes flicking down to the small boy. "Yes, absolutely," he replied wearily.

"It's important that all strong warriors fight the Romans," Maponos added in his most chief-like voice. "We should be there."

"Sometimes there are more important things than fighting." Lugurix looked down at him. "Like getting you to safety. Your mother insists upon it."

Maponos scowled. "This is because Mama thinks I am too young to fight, but really, I'm probably older even than you, Lugurix! And if we defeated the Romans, then we wouldn't have to worry about keeping me safe, because there'd be no one trying to attack us."

Lugurix hummed absently, in that way grown-ups always did when they thought a kid was saying ridiculous things but didn't want to tell them so in the hopes that the kid would be quiet. Maponos hugged his cloak tighter around him and sunk down into the saddle, frowning. Quiet fell over the small party for a few minutes.

"Are you _really_ absolutely sure we can't?" Maponos whined loudly, tilting his head back to look at the warrior.

"Maponos, your mother charged us with getting you to your aunt safely," he said in exasperation. "We are _not_ going back to f—" and his eyes went wide in glassy surprise as the arrow punched neatly through his armour.

Suddenly everything was shouting, the other warriors scrambling for their weapons as more arrows rained down from the cover of the trees. Maponos stared in horror as Lugurix slid off the saddle, crumpling to the ground, another of his escorts managing to fire off a shot into the trees before he was killed as well. One of the two remaining warriors wheeled around on his horse, galloping up to Maponos and dragging him sideways across the saddle, thundering away from the engagement. The boy struggled to breath, the pounding of the hooves jarring him as he tried to sit up. The warrior, Lugurix's brother Liborus, was yelling something, ducking under branches as they crashed through the undergrowth, thorns and briars tearing at their cloaks and the poor horse, but Maponos could hardly hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears. Then the horse screamed and reared back, throwing both riders to the ground.

Maponos scrambled to his feet, winded, spitting dirt and blood, Liborus shouting for him to run, drawing his sword as two Romans emerged from the woods. The boy stumbled backwards, tripped and nearly fell before bolting into the underbrush. He angled himself north, the blood-red sun on his left, but then there was a Roman ahead and he abandoned all attempts at direction, running blindly away from the sounds of battle and dying men. Someone was chasing him, he could hear them blundering through the autumn leaves, but frantic glance over his shoulder showed him nothing—and then he stepped into a sunken bit of ground, pain lancing through his ankle as he toppled to the ground with a shriek. He tried to get up, sheer desperation alone giving him two steps before the pain drove him back to the forest floor. He spied the hollow of a tree and crawled over, tucking himself inside, back to the tree, knees against his chest, fumbling his dagger from its sheath to clutch it against his breast with shaking hands as he choked back agonized, terrified whimpers, tears streaming down his cheeks, heart racing.

The forest was settling back to silence, the sounds of battle passed, but Maponos could hear every tiny sound: a bird in the branches overhead, a leaf drifting to the autumnal carpet, his own trembling breath, his pounding heart. Quickly, he checked his ankle, tried to move his foot—instant agony, and he bit back a scream. He covered his light blue tunic with his darker green cloak, and hoped it would let him blend in better. Oh Luge, let no one find him-

There! Leaves under foot. Maponos went perfectly still, hardly breathing, straining to hear, eyes wide as he waited. Again, footsteps, two- no, three others. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine despite the approaching night, and slowly, _slowly_ he leaned forward just a touch, to glimpse around the edge of the tree's hollow.

Three Roman legionaries.

He sat back quickly, a hand covering his mouth, dagger still at his chest. He could hear them talking, their language totally unintelligible, but he listened, eyes fixed on the forest floor as he prayed for them to move on—

His breath escaped him in a quiet, barely audible exhale.

He left a trail. When he crawled to the tree, he turned up a path through the fallen leaves. It was obvious to anyone with eyes, anyone who might have reason to search the area.

Maponos swallowed thickly. What were his options? If he stayed where he was, he would almost certainly be found. But what would running do, not that he could even put weight on his injured ankle? He gripped his dagger tighter. He'd have to wait—when they came close enough he would attack. He took a shaky breath, let it out silently.

An exclamation, footsteps, coming closer. Maponos bit back a whimper, watching, every nerve in his body coiled taunt. They came into view, one of them pointing at the trail, and as one their eyes followed it to the tree's hollow. The one in front, an ugly man with a crooked nose, met Maponos's eyes; he grinned, not kindly, and Maponos hunched further back into the hollow.

The Romans spoke again, tone shifting to mockery, arrogance and pride and something else, a low, smooth undertone that set his teeth on edge, made his skin crawl. They drew closer, and still Maponos waited. Closer, and one crouched down in front of the hollow, and reached out—

Maponos lunged, aiming for the heart. But his blade struck steel armour and skittered off the side to bite deep into the man's arm. He howled and Maponos wrenched the dagger loose, pulling back for another strike, fixed on the unprotected throat but the man pitched to the side, throwing the boy. He managed to hold onto the dagger, pushing himself up on his hands and knees, but a boot collided solidly with his ribs and he crumpled, wheezing, curling in on himself as someone kicked the dagger away. The injured soldier was shouting, furious, and strong hands seized his arms, hauled him to his feet where he winced, favouring his good ankle, trying and failing to wrench himself free.

A sharp slap across the face and he stilled, glaring up at the legionary, a smug sense of pride at the blood dribbling down the man's arm. When the man bent down, reaching for the edge of Maponos's cloak, he kicked at him fiercely, but the soldier's reflexes saved him from any damage as he landed a short, sharp punch to the boy's stomach. The air rushed out of him, left him gasping and coughing for breath, tears pricking the corner of his eyes, and while he was briefly incapacitated, the injured legionary cut off a chunk of his cloak and wrapped the wound with it.

Still wheezing painfully, Maponos watched them warily as they spoke, occasionally glancing and gesturing in his direction, clearly trying to figure out what to do with him. Everything bad Maponos had ever heard about the Romans came back to him—maybe they'd sell him as a slave, or watch him be torn apart by fearsome beasts in the gladiatorial ring. Or maybe, his slowly panicking mind suggested, maybe they'll torture slowly him until he told them everything he knew about his mother, her warriors, the locations and provisioning of fortified towns, and when he had betrayed everything he knew, kill him. And their discussion was tapering off…

He lunged again, but the grip on his arms tightened instantly, painfully. "Let me go!" he shouted furiously, and the legionaries laughed. The one with the crooked nose came closer again, a cruel, lopsided smirk on his face as he caught Maponos by the chin and forced their eyes to meet. He said something, low and smooth and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, made him pull away as much as he could. And then the soldier released him, his hands going to the belt at his waist and Maponos was momentarily baffled, before his head snapped everything together with a sudden, terrifying clarity.

"No! Let me go! Let me go!" He twisted in their grip, gritting his teeth as their nails dug in to hold him steady, and no amount of writhing got him free as they dragged him down backwards onto the leaf littered ground, pinning him in the dirt and he screamed in desperate panic for Lugurix, for Liborus, his warriors, anyone, _please!_ But his cries vanished into the woods like he wished he could, and no rescue came.

-o-

Two splendid white horses rode solemnly through the Roman camp, their riders sitting tall and proud, their regalia glinting in the blood red sunset. The legionaries parted before them and reformed as they passed like an enormous flock of sheep, and the two rode straight to the center of the camp, where the Roman commander, Gaius Iulius, sat in a backed chair on a small wooden platform. Behind him stood a handsome young man in a general's garb, doing his utmost to appear unaffected by the events.

The riders halted before them and dismounted, stepping up to the wooden platform. Without a word, Vercingetorix threw down his sword, removed his armour, and sat on the ground, expression impassive.

The remaining rider didn't move. She looked to the commander briefly, before her gaze flicked back to the young general. Their eyes met, Gaul's pale blue and Rome's deep brown.

_Do not think I do this for your glory, for that would be the height of folly. The fates may yet change and provide for your downfall, the gods bless me that I should see it._

_Gather your pride one last time, knowing that I've defeated you. Lay down your arms and surrender yourself to me—submit to my will, and the will of your new leader._

Gaul broke the contact as she dismounted, stepping up to throw her sword down, defiant eyes once again on the other nation as she stripped of her armour, dignity in her movements as she dropped it to the ground and sat beside Vercingetorix.

Rome couldn't help it—the excited grin that had been threatening to show ever since he had received the messengers offering surrender, finally broke free. He stepped forward and turned to his brilliant commander Iulius, sole architect of his glory.

"My most excellent commander and general, Gaius Iulius, may I present to you the surrendered leader of the Gaulish tribes and their fitful rebellion, Vercingetorix, and the embodiment of the Gaulish people, my counterpart among those tribes, Gallia. From this day forth, the lands of Gaullia and its people are yours to govern in accordance to the laws of the Roman Republic. Give glory and honour to the gods, for today the conquest of Gaullia is complete."

Gaul said nothing, head held high, as the commander gave the order for them to be bound in iron. Rome caught her eye as she was led away, and grinned.

Gaul looked away disdainfully. Rome could celebrate his victory all he liked, the true victory was hers. Far and away the future of her people was safe from Rome's power-hungry hands.

"And that is all that matters," she whispered, as the iron shackles closed around her wrists.

-o-

This fic will be updated on a Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule, so check back Friday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.


	3. Relevation and Schemes

**Trigger warnings:** mild violence towards a minor

-o-

They traveled for three days, stopping for rest at night and striking camp at the first rays of morning sun. The legionaries had managed to retrieve two of the horses left from the defeated escort, so the two most senior soldiers rode. Behind them walk three more legionaries, one of them carrying Maponos.

Originally he walked behind them, wrists bound. He no longer resembled a miniature chief, all poise and fine clothing. His blue tunic was smeared with dirt and spots of blood, as were his trousers and cloak, everything boasting tears and snags from his mad dash through the thorny undergrowth. His dagger had been confiscated, and the gold clasp for his cloak. It draped over his shoulders as best as he could manage, part of it frequently slipping and trailing through the dirt for a while before he noticed and fixed it, wincing as he forced his bound wrists to shift enough to do so. The rope the legionaries had was rough and the knots tight; they cut into his tender wrists and rubbed them raw, ripping the scabs free if he moved them too much. But his ankle was badly swollen, slowing him down as he limped along painfully, crying quietly with each jarring step. This lasted for the better part of the first day before he collapsed on the trail, sobbing, unable to walk any further, convinced the Romans were just going to kill him and be done with it. The soldiers stopped and talked among themselves, and Maponos drew back to the end of the rope when one approached, grumbling. But he was hauled up over the man's broad shoulder and carried like a sack for the rest of the day, the three walking legionaries trading off when one began to tire.

Despite carrying him, the legionaries ignored him, talking and joking among themselves. When they stopped for meals the one with the crooked nose would toss him a hunk of bread, which Maponos summarily ignored, despite the pains twisting his stomach. This only caused the soldiers to laugh more, taunting him with bread and bits of hard cheese until he lashed out, lunging for them and getting promptly struck down. This happened twice before he decided that simply ignoring them was his best option, no matter how infuriating they became. When night closed in he moved as far from them as the rope allowed and curled up in the tattered remains of his cloak, sleep fitful and nightmarish.

On the fourth day they reached Alesia, but it was not the Alesia Maponos remembered. Thousands of corpses littered the open plain by the fortified town, which was ringed with more corpses in and among the siege defenses. A large Roman camp was near, the area immediately surrounding it clear of bodies, and beside that a huge crowd of Gauls, packed into hastily constructed pens.

Maponos was numb as they approached. Alesia was captured? They had lost? Rome had _won_? But Mama was here, she would've never— Fear seized his heart. Where was Mama? Was she here somewhere, a prisoner as well? Had she escaped? His eyes frantically searched the face of every woman they passed, but he didn't even see anyone he recognized.

The legionaries brought him to the pens, stopping him at a table near one of the gates. A soldier there made a tally mark in his scroll, scrutinizing Maponos before giving the legionary eight small pieces of silver. Maponos felt his heart sink in disbelief as the legionary dropped him inside the guarded pen. He was going to be sold as a slave. No, he had to find Mama, she would get them out. She had to get them out. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself up and began to slowly work his way around the pen, leaning heavily on the fence for support, searching through the crowd for Gaul.

-o-

Rome slipped out of the meeting with a sigh of relief. The battle was won, he could trust the generals to deal with the details of clean up and loot and the like without him. Besides, Iulius was there, he wouldn't allow anyone to be stupid.

He nodded to saluting legionaries as he passed, walking absently through the camp. The stench of rotting corpses had improved greatly since the order went out to clear them, starting with those closest to camp, but the sickly sweet smell still permeated the air. He paused to look out at the teams of newly acquired slaves toiling in the gore, each dozen or so supervised by an armed legionary, to deter attempts at escape. Every so often someone would get it into their head that they could make it, and would bolt for the tree line, getting generally whatever distance they could cover in the time it took the soldier to line up his shot.

He wrinkled his nose as a shifting breeze brought him a fresh whiff of rot, and did a quick count—only six teams currently working? With how many able-bodied slaves available? Maybe he couldn't leave cleanup to the officers after all, grumbling as he made his way towards the slave pens. He paused a few feet away—they sank to high heaven too, though at least it was the stench of unwashed bodies and not rotting ones—and glanced them over. Look at that, plenty of able-bodied adults to haul corpses.

A quick word with the guard and he watched as slaves were pulled out of the pen and separated into groups under the command of a legionary, the hunched shoulders and fidgeting stances speaking of fear, not defiance. Most of the captured Gallics were like that, he noted with satisfaction, now that they were disarmed and contained; they were coming to accept their fate, and the ones that couldn't would no doubtably attempt to escape within the next few days and get themselves killed.

Seeing that everything was progressing smoothly, he nodded to the guards and turned to go, casting one last glance towards the pens. And paused, curious. What was that, that flicker of sensation that brushed his mind? He stopped fully and waited, eyes picking through the slaves, seeking out the source of the feeling. From where…? _Ah._ A small child, not more than five, with matted hair and tattered clothes, struggling along the side of the enclosure fence with a limp, clearly hoping to escape the guards' notice. Rome pointed him out to the closest legionary, and waited.

The child crouched defensively when it noticed the guard's approach, but had no chance of running on that limp. The guard grunted and swore, struggling to haul the struggling, shouting child over to where Rome waited, a slight smile on his face. The guard saluted when they reached him, placing the child on the ground between them, hands tight on the small shoulders. The child treated Rome to a wary, angry look, which quickly bled into surprise, then worry, straining in the guard's grip to be as far from Rome as possible.

Yes, the child felt it too. Now that it was closer, Rome saw that the child, an effeminate face but still genderless in the way all young children were, was covered in grime; its clothing, which at one point might have been fit for a Gallic chiefling, was torn and stained with blood in some places. The limp though… Rome crouched and swiftly took the child's knee, effectively preventing any blows as the child was forced to focus on balancing, and untied the lacing on the leather boot. When he pulled it off the child gasped, stubbornly hold back tears; the ankle was badly swollen, but it explained the limp as an injury, not a deformity. He released the child's knee, and just as swiftly tugged the child's trousers down a short ways, earning himself an indignant shout. Male. Rome tugged the trousers back to the boy's waist and stood; under the all the dirt and effeminate looks he saw a fit, healthy boy, a fledgling nation.

Gallia's son.

"Get me a translator," he ordered, a giddy sense of triumph blooming in his chest as he studied the boy. Here was the key to ensuring Gallia's cooperation and securing the future of these lands for himself. Praise Iupiter and Mars, to bring him such fortune in politics and war. But, he had to be careful about it…

He had the guard carry the boy to a currently unoccupied tent, seating him on a lower chair as Rome himself set fruit and a goblet of fresh wine on the table, waving the guard off. The boy sat very still, a bundle of coiled nerves, as Rome took a seat opposite him at the table.

He smiled warmly. "Come, eat and drink," he said, tone friendly, knowing that the words themselves meant little to the boy.

The boy looked away. His stomach audibly rumbled, and his cheeks flushed pink.

Rome's smile widened. "Come now, surely you don't expect me to poison a child?" He slid the goblet of wine closer on the table. "You're far too valuable to kill."

The boy looked back at him, studying him, before glancing at the wine.

"Go on," Rome encouraged.

The young nation leaned forward and took the goblet in both hands, staring at its contents before raising it to his lips—then pitching it.

"Hey!" Rome sputtered, wine splashing over his face and chest, the goblet bounced harmlessly off his arm. The boy was already stumbling for the tent flap, moving surprising fast despite his damaged ankle. Rome was on him in an instant, catching one of his arms, hauling him up, the boy twisting in his grip to throw a wild punch at his face; Rome ducked just in time and took the blow to his ear, struggling to pin the boy's free arm as furious little kicks slammed into his breastplate. His grip slipped, the boy sliding down a jolt and Rome realized this was exactly where the raging little brat did _not_ need to be—

The child jammed a sharp kick between Rome's legs and he dropped like a stone, the boy hitting the ground with a teeth-jarring thud before scrambling away.

"Get him!" Rome shouted, blinking the tears back as he tried to find the motivation to stand, watching helplessly as the boy disappeared out of the tent. He pressed his forehead to the ground, ignoring the ensuing commotion outside as he took deep, steady breathes, waiting for the pain in his groin to subside before he quickly followed.

The boy was already several pes away, surrounded by three guards, biting and scratching and kicking in sheer desperation. Rome stormed over, shoved a guard aside and grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic and cloak, wrenching him into the air. The boy coughed and struggled, clawing at the tightening collar around his neck.

"This!" Rome shouted, shaking the boy for emphasis. The guards and surrounding Romans fell quiet. "This should not take three centurions to subdue!" A few awkwardly dropped their gaze. Rome realized what he must look like— disheveled, face red, covered in wine and reeking of it—and felt his fury grow. "This _child_ should have gotten no more than two pes, on a broken ankle no less!" The boy was choking in his grip now; Rome dropped him unceremoniously to the ground, where he gasped for breath, a hand at his throat. "This savage little Gallic _cur_ has obviously been poorly trained. This needs be corrected." He lowered his volume; he had everyone's attention. "Drop him in a pit. I want no one to speak to him, to bring him food, nothing." Rome glanced down coolly to the young nation at his feet. "He'll stay there until he finds his manners."

He selected four guards to carry out his orders, and dismissed the rest, watching as the boy was hauled away, shrieking in anger. A smoldering anger of his own was still lodged in Rome's chest. Make _him_ look like a fool. But the boy would learn.

In the meantime, there was Gallia.

-o-

Gaul paced absently around the study wooden one-room house that currently served as her prison, wrists bound behind her back. The pacing gave her restlessness an outlet as she turned over the events in her head, analyzing, calculating—what went wrong? How did they lose? They had been so close, they had even breeched Rome's last line of defense, he had to call his commander Iulius to lead the counter-charge himself. Disorganization, she reflected bitterly, had killed them. The various tribes that made up her forces were disjointed in their command, communicated poorly with each other and didn't coordinate their attacks. Against Rome, numerical superiority meant little without the strict organization it took to direct them. Such valuable lessons, far too late to be of use…

She heard the guards outside bark a salute and turned towards the door. Her eyes narrowed.

Rome.

He gave the tiny space a glance over as he entered, plumbed helm tucked under one arm. "How did the poor furniture offend you?" he asked with a grin.

Two broken stools were heaped in the corner, along with all of the house's ceramics, smashed to smithereens, and the remains of the table, cracked in half with all the legs broken off. Gaul didn't answer, staring coolly at her captor.

Rome shook his head slightly as if he expected this, and balanced his helmet on a chair leg. "I'd offer you a seat, but..." He chuckled. "You probably prefer standing anyways. I did try and give you respectable accommodations."

If Rome had come only to chit chat, he was in for a rude surprise. Gaul shifted her gaze aside and said nothing.

Rome observed her in silence for a few moments, before starting loudly. "So! Good of you not to bother attempting escape; it makes this easier for both of us."

Gaul set her jaw. The only reason she wasn't leagues away from her organizing a rebellion was because Rome informed her the first day of her captivity that should she try to escape, he'd kill fifty of her people for each legionary it took to regain her, and a hundred for each centurion injured.

"Still not very happy about that infantry man though."

She allowed herself a grim smile at the memory. The man had mistakenly thought that the woman he saw under his guard would give him a good time. It had taken six of his fellows to haul Gaul off him. The damage had been considerable: broken arm, broken ribs, broken nose, and shattered pride. They bound her wrists after that, and no one had dared touch her. If you sent the right message once…

Rome continued. "But I understand; he's not really the sort of man you're interested in. You need someone a little more... dangerous."

Gaul finally looked at him, a flat, disinterested gaze. Rome met her gaze, a barely suppressed grin of confidence that threatened to curve his lips. "You are a fool," she pronounced.

"Ah, but you don't really _mean_ that," Rome said, drifting closer. Gaul's blue eyes tracked him with a faint caution. "Unless of course you mean to put yourself down as well, because if a fool can best you in battle…" He trailed off with a shrug, and Gaul wished her hands were free. "But you know I'm not a fool. No fool can best you, you're too clever for that. No fool could hope to win from you concessions. No fool would recognize a gift from the very gods, delivered to him in the disguise of a prisoner."

Gaul snorted. Rome thought her a blessing? Let him come closer, and she would gladly demonstrate what a _blessing_ she was. He stopped just outside the range of a kick though, and grinned.

"No fool could see through the veil of hunger and misfortune, to see the strong, fierce warrior it covers," he continued. His tone had shifted, the mocking arrogance of youth bleeding into the cool, calm sweep of victory assured. Gaul studied him warily as he went on, "No fool would see the potential yet hidden in such a small form, the possibilities trapped in youth. No fool could read the omens in this, could realize what this meant."

He paused, savouring the dawning look of horror on Gaul's face. He smiled.

"Gallia, why didn't you ever tell me you had a son?"

-o-

Happy Halloween, everyone! Due to time constraints and a shifting work pattern, this fic's update schedule will now be twice a week, Monday-Thursday. The next update with be Monday, November 5th, so check back Monday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.


	4. Rescue and Negotiation

**Trigger warnings:** neglect of a minor, dub-con

-o-

The scent of earthy loam filled his nostrils as he dug his fingers into the packed walls, toes wedged into a little divot, bad leg dangling uselessly. His entire body quivered with the effort as he eyed the deceptively smooth surface above his head, searching for his next hold—there, a bit of root jutting out from the wall. He took a breath and lunged for it quickly, fingers closing around it—vertigo and he fell to the ground with a jolt, pain shooting up his leg as his ankle banged against the floor of his prison. Maponos sobbed and threw the loose bit of root aside, leaning back against the dirt walls, staring up at the sky.

The pit was deep and narrow, just wide enough that a grown man could stand with his arms outstretched and just barely brush the walls with his fingertips. Maponos didn't know quite how deep, only that half way up the wall was easily twice his height, making his repeated falls not likely fatal but decidedly painful. Two days of climbing and failing, and he was beginning to think that escape wasn't possible.

He picked at the dirt ground beneath his nails, toyed with loose threads on his make-shift ankle wrap, torn from the bottom of his tunic in a rough imitation of how Mama did it. He hadn't seen anyone either, since they dropped him down the pit. Occasionally he would hear people pass by, the muffled conversations, the clink of armour, but no one paid him any attention, not even when Maponos screamed himself hoarse, demanding they let him out. Nothing. The idea that he had been totally forgotten was even worse than the thought of no escape.

Night came much faster in the pit, the steep walls preventing even the midday sun from fully penetrating the damp gloom. Maponos huddled against the wall, cloak wrapped tightly around him, and tried to will himself into sleep as his stomach loudly reminded him that he hadn't eaten in almost a week. The miserable reality of being awake was being to take its toll: a steady headache drummed inside his skull, and a deep exhaustion was beginning to settle in his bones. He started having nightmares: he saw Lugurix and the others killed, their blood dying the leaves red; the soldier with the crooked nose returned, with his lurid, sickening grin; he found Mama hacked to pieces on the battle plain, her head lost among the corpses; Rome hunted him through the woods, running him down until Maponos was cornered, Rome advancing with a club in hand. He woke up terrified and shaking, whimpering at the sounds emanating from the shadows, knowing that something lingered just out of sight.

The first day he yelled for them to release him, climbing and falling, collapsing exhausted at night. The second day he simply climbed, and fell, and slipped into a restless sleep that left him anxious and uneasy. The third day he stayed curled up in his cloak, and hoped against all odds that someone would let him out. That night the nightmares were vivid, and the next morning he begged anyone he heard pass by for water, for food, but no one answered and he wildly began to think that maybe Rome would simply let him slowly starve to death. As sunset fell he heard a soft, incessant whisper from somewhere in the pit; he covered his ears and hid under his cloak, whispering 'dissimiis luge' until he thought it was safe. When he looked up, his mother's rotting corpse stared back at him, maggots crawling out of her flesh, and he screamed. His mother lifted him out of the pit with rotting hands and dragged him onto the battlefield, heedless of the bodies that squelched under foot, deaf to his cries of panic, and showed him a corpse, bloated and bursting with pus, bright blue eyes eaten away, blond hair matted with half-congealed blood and he was that corpse, he could feel the worms writhing inside him, crawling under his flesh and all he knew was screaming.

In the morning the pit was empty save himself. He sobbed, shaking violently, and begged, shrieking, for someone to get him out. Eventually his voice cracked, and he continued his plead, whispering to himself as he trembled.

-o-

Six days after Rome ordered the boy to be dropped into the pit, and one day after the screaming had stopped entirely, Rome gathered two guards and one translator, and went to check on the child. He crouched by the edge of the pit and leaned over; the boy was tucked up by a wall, head buried in his arms, unmoving.

"Hail, child!"

His entire form jerked, frantically looking around the pit. Rome snorted and called again, and the boy finally looked up. The bafflement and raw hope on his face, even at this distance, plucked at Rome's consciousness but he shrugged it off with practiced ease.

"I, the Roman Republic, in my infinite mercy, have seen fit to forgive you for your misdeeds and offer you pardon, with the understanding that you have come to realise the error of your actions and have resolved to forgo any such further behaviour."

Rome watched the boy as the servant translated; he saw understanding dawn, and the child began babbling, the desperation evident without the translation. Rome looked to the servant for confirmation, who nodded. The nation smiled and signaled to the soldiers, who lowered a rope in to the pit, a stick tied at the end to form a rudimentary seat.

"I am sending down this rope. Sit upon the seat at the end, and you will be lifted out."

The boy stood, wavering, and swung his legs over the stick seat, clinging to the rope. He was silent as the guards hauled him up, a darting, worried look on his face, and when he neared the top of the pit he scrambled for the edge, clawing his way out, whimpering in sheer relief as he collapsed on the ground.

Rome tried very hard not to smile, and scooped the boy up in his arms. The child clung to him, trembling, as Rome carried him back to his private tent, where a hot water bath had already been drawn by the slaves. He kept his movements slow and unthreatening as he stripped the boy of his filthy clothes, frowning when the child cringed and tried to draw away, his body language making Rome crossly wonder which of his men did it. But he shushed and soothed and spoke in low, gentle tones, coaxing the boy into the metal tub and scrubbing the grime off himself, the servants attending only to fetch him bath salts and oils and salves as needed. The dirt washed out to reveal golden, sun-kissed hair, and Rome was again struck by his assessment that the child was both healthful and beautiful. Definitely one who would grow up to wreak havoc on women's hearts.

The boy was through all of it silent, still cowering at the world. The possibility existed that Rome had waited too long, had pushed the boy too far, and while a mute, listless servant was still a useful thing, having the child animate and aware suited Rome's needs much better. He lifted the boy from the tub, dried him with soft cloth and rubbed scented oil into his skin until he positively glowed, expertly tending to his ankle and minor wounds. He pulled a clean tunic over the boy's head, fastening a new cloak at his shoulders with a fibula of bronze. From there he carried the boy to the table, laid out while he was bathing with roasted venison, freshly baked bread, fruit bursting with sweetness, soft cheese and wine carefully transported from the capital. The scent and sight of so much food roused the boy; Rome grinned as he watched the boy wolf down his food with that ravenous appetite that only comes from having nothing for days. He slowed only after having consumed a half loaf of bread, all of the grapes, a quarter wheel of cheese, and most of the leg of venison. Rome wasn't the least bit surprised when the child promptly threw it all back up; he expected as much, but knew better than to get between a starving man and his long-awaited relief. When the heaving stopped, he pulled the boy into his lap and fed him, some bread, some meat, a half an apple and some cheese, explaining as he helped the boy support the heavy weight of the wine goblet that there would be plenty more food later and he didn't have to make himself sick.

The boy's hunger waned, and exhaustion crept in. Rome gently pried the goblet out of his hands and set it on the table, standing with the boy in his arms. The child reflexively rested his head on Rome's shoulder, and a surge of bemused familiarity passed through the older nation. He shook it off, tucking the boy into his own bed and staying with him until sleep dragged him down, the wine speeding his course.

Rome lingered a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He missed Hispania, left behind in the capital while Papa went out to war. He had two letters safely tucked away in his things, lonely Hispania wondering when he'll return, hoping he'll come back soon, shyly hoping for a present, maybe, upon Papa's return. It occurred to Rome, as he sat on the edge of the bed, that he might have another Hispania here, another son to bring back to the capital and raise in proper Roman ways. He'd be lying to say that he didn't want another son, someone for Hispania to play with, another child to take after their new father.

It would have to wait, he concluded, standing and slipping out of the tent, a guard moving in to stand watch. He knew little about the child, though what he had seen—a brief and furious escape attempt, on a broken ankle no less—was promising. It showed that the child wasn't a coward, wasn't afraid of pain when it came to achieving his goals. Still, he'd have to see how the boy progressed over the next few weeks; if he remained a mute, flinching creature, he would join his tribesmen as slaves.

Rome pushed his musings of fatherhood aside. Where he was heading, sentiment would be his weapon.

-o-

Gaul looked up when Rome entered, watching him set his helm aside in its usual place. She stood, body aching, from her seat on the floor by the unlit hearth and waited until Rome looked at her.

"Good afterno—"

"Let me see my son," she demanded firmly.

Rome ignored her. "The guard sent word last night that you wanted to see me. I had hoped your diplomacy had returned. But if not—" He turned to leave.

"Wait—" Gaul jerked a step forward, stopped and held her ground. Rome paused, looking back. She took a breath to steady herself, before calmly stating, "I wish to discuss the terms on which I may see my son."

Rome faced her again, expression carefully blank. "Speak then."

She pushed aside the flare of fury at the lack of respect, and continued. "I know what it is you seek, and I am willing to give it to you, if I may then see my son."

His head tilted, very slightly. "Is that so," he murmured, gaze traveling the length of her body before catching her eyes.

Gaul met his stare evenly, head high, refusing to acknowledge the disgust that crawled over her skin. "Yes."

Rome reached up and undid the clasps pinning his red officer's cloak in place, folding it once over his arm. "Show me, and then we shall see about your son," he said with a smile, tossing his cloak over a lower beam.

Gaul clenched her jaw so tight she wondered if her teeth would crack, but gave a brief nod. Rome's smile stretched wider, and he snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, kissing along her neck.

Gaul let her eyes fix on his blood red cloak and envisioned her own hands stained that colour, as Rome's hands wandered down over her body. The image was only a small comfort.

-o-

Solitary confinement is a vicious torture-yes, torture-that can result in visual and auditory hallucinations, hypersensitivity to noise and touch, insomnia and paranoia, uncontrollable feelings of rage and/or fear, distorted perceptions of time, increased risk of suicide, and PTSD. These effects can appear after as little as twenty-four hours in solitary confinement. Generally speaking, even if one was in good mental health going into solitary, one will _not be_ coming out. It was a horrendous thing for Rome to do to young France, in the hopes that by depriving him of human contact, food, water, and shelter, the child would be more malleable and view Rome as the "good guy" from whom France receives food, companionship, and safety.

This fic will be updated on a Monday-Thursday schedule, so check back Thursday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.


	5. Dedication and Duty

Something warm and soft pressed against his cheek as he stirred; blearily, Maponos opened his eyes, and sat up cautiously as he realized. He was in a Roman's tent, possibly _Rome's_ tent. The space was empty of people, with few personal possessions out and visible. Maybe it wasn't Rome's tent? Maponos wasn't sure what he had been expecting for Rome's things, but the lack of gold was surprising. He thought everything would be fancier.

He flipped the blankets aside and inspected his ankle, tightly wrapped and aching, but not with the pain of injury so much as the dull progress of healing. Rome did it, he remembered suddenly; Rome wrapped his ankle so it'd heal. And scrubbed off the dirt and blood, and fed him until he fell asleep. He frowned, brow knitting together. That didn't make any sense. Rome wanted to kill him, him and all of Gaul's people. So why take care of him? Maponos shifted, glancing around the empty tent again. He had to find Mama.

He swung his legs off the side of bed and eased himself to the floor, wincing as he put weight on his ankle. He gingerly hobbled along the edge of the bed, using it as support, and stopped when he reached the end. The nearest piece of furniture was a chair of some sort, very long like a bench but with a back to lean again; it was some four steps away. Maponos took a breath, and tried—he stumbled the instant weight hit his bad ankle, tumbling to the floor.

A noise to the side; Maponos jerked his head up to see a guard peering in. The Roman said something to another, then moved to stand inside the tent. He made no move for the boy.

Maponos watched him warily, not trusting the man. Slowly, he crawled to the strange bench-chair and hauled himself up, eyes still on the soldier. There was a dull ache through his whole body, and he knew he definitely wouldn't be able to fight if it came to that. Then the tent flapped beside the guard was batted aside and Rome entered, followed by a small retinue of servants.

Maponos shrunk down on himself at the sight of the other nation, all gleaming armour and flowing cloak. Rome waved the guard outside distractedly, directing the small group of servants with an ease that bespoke his comfort as a leader, as someone whose orders were obeyed without question. The servants scattered throughout the tent, too many for Maponos to keep track of. As Rome approached, he didn't have the attention to do so.

Rome smiled at him and spoke, his tone warm; the servant still hovering by his side translated. "Good morning. Are you feeling better? You slept for most of two days."

Maponos tried and failed to hide his amazement. "If you're Gaulish, why are you a servant to Rome?" he blurted.

The man coloured faintly. Rome nudged him, questioning, and the man replied. Rome laughed.

"The general says that many of Gallia's people are servants to him and his, with many more to come, but that is for talk another time," the man relayed the nation's words. "Please, come—sit and dine with me."

The thought of escape flickered through his thoughts, once, before the horror of the pit sent a violent shudder through him. Maponos hobbled around to the right side of the bench-chair and sat down; Rome took a seat opposite him, a low table between them. The Gaulish servant stood behind him.

"What is your name?"

"Maponos," he replied—Rome tapped the table sharply, snapping the boy's attention back, and spoke.

The servant stated, "Make no mistake; regardless of the translator, you are speaking to me, child. Therefore, look at me when answering."

Maponos dragged his gaze back to Rome and nodded. Rome smiled.

"So your name is Maponos." A brief exchange between general and servant. "It means 'son' in the Gaulish tongue, does it not? Not very creative on your mother's part—"

"Where is my mother?" Maponos asked quickly, doing his best to keep his attention focused on the other nation.

Rome's expression fell; he glanced down at his hands. "Your mother is dead."

Maponos's brows knitted. "What?" But, that's not possible. His mother couldn't be dead, nations don't just _die_— "No, that's- not right. Mama isn't, she's not dead. She _can't_ be dead, we don't- she can't die like that-"

Rome held up a hand. "I assure you, our kind can and indeed do die, though it is a difficult feat. I saw her body on the battle plain, as unmoving as those around her. Your mother is dead."

Maponos shook his head wordlessly, eyes brimming with tears. "No," he said simply, gaze darting away, seeking something, anything familiar to fix on. "No, it's not—no, no no no-" His shoulders hitched, a sharp gasp lodged painfully in his throat. "Mama- Mama, where are you? Mama—" He curled forward, sobbing.

A soft, gentle hand rested on his arched back. "Shhh…"

"No!" Maponos shrieked, jerking away from where Rome sat beside him. "Don't touch me! You killed her! You killed Mama—"

"It was not my blade what killed her—" the translator tried to say calmly, but Maponos was screaming.

"I don't care! I don't care, you killed her! You killed Mama—"

Rome grabbed his forearm, pulling him over and Maponos lashed out, managed to clip Rome's jaw before enormous arms enveloped him, holding him flush against the older nation's chest, immobilizing him as he struggled, shrieking, until his strength failed him. Still Rome did not let go, and Maponos sobbed, wailing his grief into Rome's shoulder. Rome simply held him in silence, rocking him slightly, until even the cries died away, the boy sniffing and shaking.

The republic's words were quiet. "Do not fear. You won't be abandoned. I will take care of you and see to your upbringing."

Maponos pulled back and Rome let him. "I don't want you," he said sullenly. "I want Mama."

"I know, Maponos, I know," he continued, words still gentle. "But your mother is dead. It is nearly impossible to kill our kind, except when it is our time. What else can explain why a wound that normally would be no trouble to heal suddenly becomes fatal? We are subject to the will of the gods even as mortals are, though our fates run differently than theirs."

"The gods, wanted Mama to die?" Maponos asked in a small voice.

"The gods want each person to live out their fated life, and accept that one day they will die. Even us. Thus, your mother has passed on. But you." Rome brushed a lock of hair off the boy's forehead. "You are still here. Your mother's time has come, but you are still here. Your mother's people pass on to you; it is your birth right that you should take up the mantle of responsibility for your people's future. But you are still young, and cannot do it alone. I have conquered them, so they are now a part of the Roman Republic, as are you. But under my guidance, you will protect them, bring them riches and glory the likes of which they have not ever before seen. It's your responsibility now, and your duty to your mother and your people."

Maponos hesitated, biting his lip. He wasn't sure if he wanted Rome to raise him. All the awful things he'd heard about the Romans—but Rome himself didn't, seem so bad… And he was right, Maponos had to take care of Mama's—of, _his_ people. The thought was overwhelming. How to begin to take Mama's place, to protect everyone and settle any disputes and bless the land and the hunt and give proper respect to the gods and- But. Maybe Rome could help. And besides, what else could he do? Slowly, he nodded.

The briefest smile ghosted across Rome's face. "So begins your new life. Such times call for a new name. From this day forth, you will be called…" Rome paused, searching Maponos's eyes; the boy repressed the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.

"You will be called 'Aurelius Gallicus'. The Golden One of Gaul," he pronounced, laying his hand on the boy's brilliant blonde hair.

Mapon—Aurelius looked up at Rome, at the proud smile curving his lips, at the kindness in his eyes, and nodded.

-o-

Things went quickly after that. Aurelius was given the servant, a man called Cassius, to attend him and translate, although Rome told him he would have to learn Latin as soon as possible. Aurelius frowned at this—he thought the Roman language was ugly, all sharp sounds and odd angles in his ears, but agreed.

Rome stayed for the midday meal, more delicious food that Aurelius scarfed down until he felt sick, though this time he managed to avoid actually being sick. As they ate Rome explained Aurelius would stay with him in his tent, and to consider it equally his own. Since the boy was still weakened from his ordeal, he wasn't expected to begin studying right away; Rome wanted him to rest and fully recover his health before taxing himself with study.

After the meal, Rome summoned a servant who appeared with a long length of twine. Under the man's direction, Aurelius stood on a stool, arms out, as the man held the twine up to him, taking measurements.

"You need new clothes," Rome explained, standing off to the side as the servant wrapped the length of twine around Aurelius's waist. "Undergarments, tunicae, and a tunica pulla, to start with." At the blank look he received, he elaborated. "You'll dress like a Roman now, and it would be improper if I didn't get you mourning clothes."

"Oh…" Aurelius look to the ground, heart surging in grief at the suggestion. He struggled to wrap his head around it, the idea that Mama—strong, beautiful Mama—could be dead. He didn't not believe Rome, he just… It seemed so impossible. A thought struck him and his head snapped back up to look at Rome. "Wait—her funeral rites! I have to make sure she has funeral rites."

For a moment, Rome didn't reply, expression unreadable, before he nodded. "Of course. What is it you need to do?"

Aurelius had seen many funerals in spite his youth, already old enough for an entire generation of his mother's—_his_ people be born, grow old, and pass to the next life. "Her—" He choked slightly, throat tight, and push through it. "Her body, needs to be burnt, and bread and meat and wine, and, clothes…" He trailed off into a mumble, then fell silent, aghast.

Rome tilted his head slightly. "What is it?"

Aurelius shook his head slightly, tears welling up in his blue eyes. "I don't know how I'm gonna do it. She needs bread and meat and wine, and her clothes, and servants, and all her things—but it's all gone, and I don't have anything to give her, she's not gonna have anything in the next life—"

He was crying then, his voice a high, grief-stricken sound, and Rome crossed over to him in two strides, gently shushing him, wiping away tears. "No no, don't cry, Aurelius; your mother will have bread and meat and wine, and all the fine things befitting her dignity. I will supply them myself, I promise you."

"You will?" Aurelius looked up, face streaked with tears.

Rome nodded. "I swear on my life." He gave the boy's shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "Here, you finish with measurements for clothes; I'll go begin the preparations, okay?"

Aurelius nodded, sniffing as he scrubbed his cheeks dry. Rome gave a smile, then left the tent, the smile slipping away as he thought.

Aurelius expected funeral rites for his mother, and he would expect a body… Well, Rome could arrange that.

-o-

By evening, near the massive pyre built for the fallen soldiers outside the camp, a group of Romans had gathered around a smaller, unlit pyre. Their commander had informed them that a great leader of the Gallic had died, and the leader's son would be permitted to mourn in the fashion of his people. Why this meant that the soldiers had to stand in attendance was beyond them, and more than a little infuriating—with battle won, they should be celebrating with wine and women, not attending the funeral of the enemy's leader. But they had nothing but respect for their general, so they went with nary a grumble, standing around in the growing cold as the last arrangements were made.

The pyre, they noted, was completed mounded over with branches, nearly obscuring the body within.

An officer barked out a salute; the soldiers snapped into attention as their republic passed, leading a small boy by the shoulder. They stopped in front of the pyre, and the child stepped forward.

For a long moment, Aurelius simply stared at the pyre. He could see his mother's outline through the branches, her long blond hair spilling down through the bed of dry wood. In his mind's eye he saw her sit up, pushing the branches off with a look of annoyance on her face, the same look he got when he'd rip his trousers at the knee and she'd have to patch them up. His eyes brimmed with tears and he dropped his gaze, looking over the offerings Rome had gathered—several loaves of bread, a large ceramic jug of wine, an entire deer, skinned and butchered, fruits, two fine dresses, several long tunics and trousers, gold jewellery beyond what his mother was likely already wearing, and—

His heart wrenched painfully in his chest as his gaze came to rest on her sword, the iron blade glinting in the guttering torchlight, the gold hilt glittering. He took a halting step forward, crouching to rest his forehead against it, the tip driven into the ground so it stood. A tear rolled down the tip of his nose and dripped to the ground.

Aurelius stood and stepped back again, looking to Rome. Rome took a torch from one of the guards and passed it to him without a word.

The boy looked once more over the pyre, wishing he could see his mother's face, before he touched the blazing torch to the kindling at the base, igniting it before he thrust the firebrand into the pyre itself. Aurelius stood back, the growing heat of the pyre washing over him, and sang.

He sang about his mother, his earliest memory of her, how she dared the dangerous journey into the Otherworld to rescue him, how she always card for him, teaching him everything she knew. He sang about her beauty and strength, her kindness and ferocity, her bravery in battle and her skill in healing. He sang about everything he knew of his mother, everything good and right and glorious, so the gods would know her greatness and welcome her with open arms—

His voice broke; he choked back a strangled sob, the tears flowing down his cheeks. He took a breath, held it, then bent down and took up a loaf of bread, offering it skyward to the gods before tossing it into the leaping fire. Then wine went next, as he poured a libation onto the ground, asking his ancestors, who were his mother's ancestors, to guide her safely to the next world. The rest of the offerings followed, all tossed onto the pyre, save the sword, which remained thrust into cold earth at the foot of the pyre, proclaiming to all the fierce warrior within it.

Slowly the soldiers began to trickle away. Rome nodded, permitting their leave, before he stepped up to the silent boy.

"Your mother was a brave warrior, and one of the finest I ever fought," he said quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder.

The boy nodded mutely, eyes locked on the pyre.

Rome thought of the nameless woman it contained, one of the many who starved, trapped between the besieged city and the Roman encampment, and sighed. "Come, Aurelius," he said, gently pushing him away from the farce.

Aurelius resisted briefly, form tensing, getting one last look before he relented, allowing Rome to guide him back to the tent.

Rome slept on one of the long bench-chairs, and Aurelius laid in bed awake for what felt like hours. He saw flames dancing behind his eyelids whenever he shut them, thought of the food and clothes and gold he pitched into the fire. Rome had given him all of that, valuable things, just for his mother. The thought comforted him slightly, knowing that even though he defeated her, Rome still knew how great his mother is—was. How great Gaul was.

Aurelius buried his face into his pillow and cried himself to sleep.

-o-

This fic will be updated on a Monday-Thursday schedule, so check back Monday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.


	6. Education and Explanations

**Trigger warnings: **Sexual assault, dubcon

-o-

The next few days dragged by. Aurelius tried to sleep as long as he liked, but the trumpet call that roused Rome from sleep dragged him into the waking world as well, without the courtesy of a purpose as it did for the soldiers. He laid quietly in bed, listening as Rome went about his morning, only rolling over once he heard the other nation leave. The motivation to get up simply wasn't there—normally he'd held Mama finish making breakfast, or go gather herbs from the garden, or a hundred other little tasks she asked him to do upon waking, but she was no longer there to prod him out of bed. Eventually boredom won out and Aurelius got up despondently, trying to find a pattern in his new life.

The rhythm built itself up slowly. Rome left in the morning; Aurelius hauled himself out of bed some time later and sat down to breakfast with his servant Cassius, where his Latin education began. The first morning Aurelius was deemed fit enough to learn, Cassius informed him that Rome commanded the servant to speak to Aurelius _only_ in Latin, with the idea that he'd learn faster that way. Aurelius hadn't heard a word of Gaulish from the man since. He remembered the words—_malo_, _malus, _apple; _puella, puellae, _girl; _Roma_, _Romae,_ Rome; _gladius, gladii,_ sword—but struggled to keep track of the way the words changed as they spoke. Cooped up in the tent, forbidden by Rome to leave its confines without him as a personal escort, Aurelius had nothing better to do but learn. He could name every object in the tent and dutifully recite the endings by rote, but sentences eluded him. Rome returned one evening for dinner only to hear him speaking Gaulish to Cassius, and promptly forbid Cassius from paying Aurelius any attention, unless the boy was speaking Latin. Aurelius's discontentment grew, but so did his knowledge of Latin.

Rome was gone for most of the day, but by dinner he returned, greeting Aurelius with a hug and a ruff of the hair, asking him what he learned over the meal. Aurelius answered as best he could, often times simply reciting the new words. Rome filled the silence with talk of his own, and without Cassius translating Aurelius missed most of it. It was frustrating, but more than that it was _lonely_, and Aurelius hated it.

After dinner they went outside, Cassius following with a torch, and found a suitable patch of dirt for study. Aurelius plopped down on the ground while Rome sat back on his haunches, drawing figures in the dirt with deft, skilled strokes, brandishing a stick like a quill.

Aurelius would watch, quietly impressed, and then ask, "_Quid est?_" what is it? One of the few sentences he knew perfectly.

"_Quid est_?"

"Serpens, serpentis."

"_Quid est?"_

"Stella, stellae."

"_Quid est?"_

"Agricola, agricolae."

Steadily his vocabulary grew, but not fast enough. Once Aurelius learned the words for paper and pen, he requested both of them, and every night Rome found himself presented with scores of drawings, all things the boy wanted to know. The republic snorted, grinning, and did his best to puzzle out what the child's scribbles meant, often times drawing what he thought the picture was only to realize Aurelius meant something completely different. But it was fun, their accidental games of charades, and Aurelius learned. He didn't necessarily want to know Latin, but he wanted to be able to talk to people.

After a few weeks, Rome began to tell stories, speaking slowly and clearly, using simple words and sentences, his hands often times moving more than his mouth. Aurelius listened with rapt attention, only interrupting if he had no idea what a word was to the point where he couldn't follow the story. And so Rome told him about the gods and their many experiences, how Apollo drove his flaming chariot across the sky, about Neptune and Minerva's competition that gave mankind olives and horses, about the golden apple and the fall of Troy.

"Ah, it was such a magnificent city, Troy…" Rome said wistfully, eyes distant. "Trade from every corner of the earth, beautiful women and excellent food."

Aurelius smiled slightly. "You were, in Troy?" he tried.

"Of course; I grew up in Troy," Rome replied, reaching for his goblet.

The young nation straightened. "You grew up in Troy?"

"Yes; Troy was my father."

"What happened?"

Rome paused, then drained his goblet, motioning for Cassius to refill it. "Let me continue my tale; perhaps that will answer your question."

Rome recounted the ten year siege and the deaths of Greeks Achilles and Ajax, and the Trojan princes Hector and Paris, the trick of the wooden horse left by Odysseus, and the total destruction visited upon the city by the Greeks.

"Everyone was killed," Rome finished quietly. "Men cut down in their beds, women dragged into the streets and defiled, child hurled from rooftops to their demise. All was blood and death and rage-filled despair."

Aurelius couldn't miss the old grief that etched Rome's face and thought of Mama, tears threatening instantly, but he pushed them aside. "Everyone?" he asked. No one to perform funeral rites, no one to mourn…

"Yes. Well," Rome paused. "Almost everyone. A small group of Trojans was able to flee the city, led by the man Aeneas. We survived. We wandered all over the wide earth searching for a home, to Crete, to old Carthage, to Cumae, finally arriving near what is now my city. We settled the town of Alba Longa, and many years later I left to found Rome, my city."

Aurelius nodded, turning this new information over in his head. "So, Troy…?"

Rome gave a small, forced smile. "Killed when the city was sacked. But I pushed on, and now I'm the greatest empire on earth, far stronger than Greece." A real smile then as he stood and stretched. "It's late; you should sleep," he said, picking Aurelius up and carrying him to the bed.

"I can walk, my—my ankle is heal now," Aurelius protested.

"_Healed_. And I know." He set the boy on the edge of the bed and stripped the tunic off over his head. "Under the blankets with you."

Aurelius didn't need telling twice, hiding from the chill autumn air, squirming under the woolen sheets in the hopes of warming them up faster. Rome chuckled as he undressed as well, and then slipped into the bed. Aurelius stopped, shifting away as Rome laid down.

"What's wrong?" the older nation asked, propping his head up on his fist.

Aurelius didn't answer, tugging the sheets up to his chest only partially because of the cold. He didn't know why it bothered him (_the crooked nosed_ _soldier_) but seeing Rome there made him (_leering above him, grunting with each move_) uneasy, a deep, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he dropped his gaze, shaking his head as he laid down beside the nation, careful not to touch.

The torch was extinguished, and Rome's voice sounded from the darkness beside him. "_Dormi bene._"

Aurelius nodded before remembering that Rome couldn't see him. "_Dormi bene_," he whispered.

He laid wake for what felt like hours, tensing whenever Rome shifted, listening as his breathing steadied into the deep, full breathes of sleep. Only then did Aurelius feel his muscles begin to uncoil, before sleep swiftly pulled him under.

-o-

Rome appeared shortly after the midday meal, a meager portion of bread, hard cheese, and diluted wine. Gaul barely glanced at him when he entered, gazing disdainfully out the window. He had not been by in some time, leaving Gaul to her own all-consuming thoughts, trapped in the stagnant little house. She longed to see her son, wondering occasionally if Rome had simply lied about having captured him. But she couldn't take that risk, couldn't put Maponos in any more danger than he already was. If Rome was hoping she'd cave, however, break down and beg to see the child, he was wrong. So when he appeared, Gaul ignored him. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then suddenly Rome rushed her, grabbing her by the shoulders and Gaul snarled, trying to throw him off as he used his beastly height to force her back. They struggled, Rome laughing as he scrambled to pin her hands, straddling her. She bucked, nearly throwing him, surging up while he was off-balance to throw a well-placed punch to his diaphragm. Rome coughed but didn't fall, trapping her hand as he leveraged his entire weight against her, flattening her to the bed.

"_Get off me,_" she growled fiercely, thrashing beneath him as he kissed between her shoulder blades. She slammed her head back, connecting with Rome's forehead and he groaned, burying his face against the back of her neck for a moment.

"Get _off_ me," Gaul repeated, trying to wrench herself free. A few months ago, this would have been easy, but the lack of food coupled with the demoralization of her people was beginning to take a serious toil on her strength.

Rome nuzzled the side of her head. "Heh, but Gallia," he whispered near her ear. "Is that any way to treat me? I thought we had an understanding." He shifted against her, and Gaul felt his member press against her leg. She grimaced.

"_My _understanding is that you are miserable son of a whore," she snapped. Rome's chuckled sent a breath of warm air over her cheek, and she caught a whiff of wine.

"Strange—I thought you wanted to see your son," he mused, pulling back. Gaul didn't move. "But I suppose I can return to him in this state—"

Her eyes widened at the implications and she struggled viciously. "No! Don't you _dare_—!"

He remained astride her, unshakable. "A misunderstanding, then?" he asked pleasantly, lightly placing a hand behind him on her thigh.

She choked down a wave of disgust, stilling. "Yes. A misunderstanding," she forced out through gritted teeth.

Rome grinned. "Good," he murmured, his hand trailing higher.

Gaul shuddered, but didn't stop him.

-o-

Gaul mutely studied the wooden support beams that held up the roof, idly wondering if she could rig them to collapse on the bed. Beside her, Rome sat strapping on his vambraces, adjusting the belt at his waist. When he stood, Gaul rolled onto her side and sat up.

"I'll have the guards bring you a full supper tonight; you're starting to lose weight, I think," Rome commented, muddy eyes traveling over her bared form.

She said nothing, then spat at his feet. He snorted, and turned to leave.

"My son," Gaul called after him.

Rome paused at the door, turning back. "Keep up the good behaviour and your reward will come." He smiled brightly and left.

Gaul swallowed the painful tightness in her throat that had slowly built up over the encounter. She wasn't sure if it was a sob or a scream, but she'd rather not let Rome find out. Dragging her clothes back on, she slipped out of bed onto the floor, fingers furtively prying up a loose stone beneath the bed. She retrieved a scrap of linen, a broken wood stylus, and a small vial of ink, painstakingly mixed from lampblack and spit. Leaning against the bed as if in despair, supplies hidden from the guard's view by her form, Gaul carefully continued her message, spelling out the hope for her people's future.

-o-

"You can wander about the camp now without me," Rome informed Aurelius over breakfast.

The boy sat up instantly, like an attentive pup. It was endearing. "I can?"

"Yes. Provided you don't get into trouble, and you must stay in the camp," Rome added.

Aurelius understood 'no trouble' and 'stay in camp'. "Yes, okay," he agreed excitedly, rising from his seat.

"No- finish your meal." Rome pointed to his chair. Aurelius flopped back down with an impatient sigh, practically vibrating in his eagerness as he quickly polished off the remains of his meal. Rome hid a smile; he hadn't thought it would take so long to transport the majority of the captured Gallics towards the capital, but now that most of them had left the city, he was less concerned about Aurelius exploring the camp on his own. He may or may not have been a little grateful to be relieved of escort duties as well, happily handing the breath of them to the servant Cassius.

"I'm finished!" Aurelius exclaimed.

Rome smiled. "Go," he nodded towards the tent flap.

Aurelius bolted, and Rome shook his head. "Good luck," he called after Cassius, as the poor man hurried to keep up. He watched until they disappeared around a row of tents, then headed to Iulius.

The commander was pouring over a map when Rome entered. "Imperator," he stated, fist over his heart, head bowed.

Iulius looked up. "Ah, Romulus, good," he waved the nation over.

Rome came around the table and peered over the map, noting the little figurines scattered across the surface. "What are we looking at?"

"Rebellions."

Rome groaned. "Again? Really? One would think that the defeat and capture of Vercingetorix would finally convince them to accept the inevitable…" Most of the figurines weren't too far from their present position.

"It's not always so simple. But the reports tell me the budding rebellions are small, two or three village alliances at best. They'll be no threat at all if we take care of them now."

Rome straightened up from his inspection of the map. "So it's a mop up campaign."

Iulius nodded. "Essentially. Their miserable winter is coming though, so the majority of the encounters will have to wait until spring."

Rome's brows knitted together. "Are you sure that's wise, Imperator? Winter could give them the time they need to form new alliances."

"I don't want to overtax our forces before the snows set in, particularly since I suspect there will be no help from the Senate," Iulius frowned, motioning for a servant to bring them wine.

"Pompey again?" Rome asked dryly, already expecting the answer.

"Yes. But that is a concern for another day." Iulius accepted a goblet and passed the other to Rome, who wrapped his fingers around the pewter stem and sipped.

"I don't like the thought of waiting through the winter. At least permit me to defeat these pockets here," Rome gestured to the three closest to their position. "It would greatly reduce the chances of be harassed through the cold months, when we'll need to be focusing on food and supplies and not getting ambushed in the woods."

Iulius hummed thoughtfully. "I will send out more scouts. Depending on their assessments, I will consider it."

"Thank you, Imperator—"

"And what about the boy?"

Rome blinked. "What?"

"The boy, the one like you. What do you intend to do with him?" Iulius stepped back from the table, taking a seat on one of the long couches.

Rome sat as well, buying himself a few seconds' time to formulate his response. "I intend to raise him as my son. Like Hispania."

The commander nodded. "Does he know that Gallia is alive? I saw you allowed him to perform a funeral rite."

"He believes she's dead."

Iulius favoured him with a long look. "That farce will come back to haunt you, you realize," he said finally.

Rome waved it off. "I will deal with that in time. For now, it is enough that he thinks she's dead, and I his guardian."

The young Roman made an unconvinced noise but didn't press further. "So you will send him to the capital?"

"No, Imperator. I feel it best to keep him here for the time being."

Iulius sat forward, expression serious. "Romulus. We will be leading a mop up campaign against his former people. You propose to keep him with you as you kill rebels?"

"Well I can't send him back to the capital," Rome countered, exasperated. "Not with Pompey controlling the Senate in your absence. Bad enough Hispania is currently there."

"My wife is looking after him—"

"With all due respect, Iulius," Rome cut him off. "Calpurnia is not you. And I will not place both my children within Pompey's grasp."

"So you will keep the boy here while you slaughter his relatives," Iulius frowned.

"He only has _one_ relative and she's currently imprisoned in Alesia proper. He's _adjusting_, Iulius, already picking up Latin at a break-neck speed, eating our food, wearing our clothes. I'm not asking him to participate in the battles; he will simply be present at camp," Rome stated. He wasn't being unreasonable.

Iulius was silent, sipping his wine. Finally he shook his head. "I honestly do not yet trust that his loyalties lie with us. I want nothing to jeopardize the ending campaign. My term as governor will come to a close next year and this must be completed before that."

"I understand, Iulius, but placing him under Pompey's shadow is ludicrous," Rome argued.

The commander sighed. "I will speak with him. If I should deem his loyalty sufficiently committed, then he may stay through the mop up operations. If not, he goes to the capital."

Rome realized this was his only chance for a concession. "Agreed, Imperator. Only I ask that you wait a time yet, maybe a month, for his Latin to improve sufficiently so that he can talk with you without the aid of an interpreter."

Iulius gave him a look, which clearly indicated that he knew what Rome was up to, but nodded. "Very well, Romulus. You have a month's time before I speak with him."

Rome grinned. "Thank you, Iulius. With your leave, I will go see to his studies." He stood.

"Go on then," Iulius dismissed him. Rome had just reached the tent flap when the commander called out. "What is it you're calling him?"

Rome smiled. "Aurelius. Aurelius Gallicus."

Iulius nodded thoughtfully. "Let us hope the coming years are equally golden."

The nation smiled. "I suspect they will be, Iulius."

-o-

The soldiers sent curious, puzzled glances at the young blond-haired boy as he wandered curiously through the camp. Some of the initial excitement was wearing off, as he came to understand the camp's layout. It functioned as a miniature city, with soldiers rooming two or three to a tent. Larger tents were for commanders and other ranked officers, and there were tents set aside for priests, scribes, healers—the stench of tar and rot from that tent sent Aurelius hurrying past it with barely a glance—armourers, stable hands, though the horses were kept in corrals and not stables proper, and others. No one paid him much attention, all going about their duties. The tents were set up in neat rows, with a tall standard presumably marking internal divisions—a bull, a lion, a thunderbolt. The edge of the camp was clearly defined by a solid double wall and two deep trenches; they wrapped all around the city walls, and it didn't take much for Aurelius to figure out that Alesia had been besieged, and reinforcements summoned. But if reinforcements had arrived, how did Alesia still fall?

"Cassius, what happened?" he asked, staring out through the guarded gates to the battle plain.

The servant followed his gaze and sighed. "We besieged the Gallic forces at Alesia, building the fortifications you see. The Gallic commander led many strong attacks against the centurions, but was unable to break their lines. A small cavalry force was able to escape the city though, and Imperator Iulius rightly predicted that a relief army would arrive. He ordered the construction of another set of fortifications ringing the camp on the outside, which prevented a direct assault by the relief army. Then the Gallic forces attacked a weak point in the fortifications from the inside, while the relief army attacked from the outside. Commander Iulius himself led thirteen cavalry cohorts to attack from the rear, which caused confusion, then panic. The retreating relief army was slaughtered, and the Gallic commander surrendered the next day."

Aurelius stared at him blankly. "What?"

Cassius started again, slowly, scratching pictures in the dirt for clarification, and Aurelius quickly learned the words for fortifications, wall, trench, cavalry, cohort, imperator, centurion, city, and several other verbs. They went through the story again, the boy listening carefully, and when Cassius finished, Aurelius was silent, staring at the diagram of the battle drawn in the dirt.

"… I see." So that's how Rome did it. He didn't have more soldiers than Mama, just… Aurelius didn't want to say it. Better soldiers? Better orders? The Roman camp was so _tidy_, so precise, completely unlike the chaotic, disorganized camps he remembered on Mama's side. He recalled the bursting sense of pride he had felt, striding through those camps, but now it just felt silly, compared to the discipline and organization of the Roman camp.

_Maybe this was why some of the conquered tribes didn't join Mama_, he thought uncomfortably._ Maybe they realized that Rome's way was just… better…_

"Aurelius!"

Rome was smiling as he came over, expression carefree and happy. Aurelius cast another look at the battle plain beyond the gates and stood, brushing the dirt of his tunic. "Salve, Roma," he greeted politely.

Rome chuckled and ruffed his hair. "What are you doing?"

"Cassius told to me the story of the battle of Alesia," Aurelius replied slowly, fitting the Latin together in his head.

"Ah…" Rome shifted his hand to Aurelius's shoulder and steered him alongside as they walked. "What do you think?"

"I…" Aurelius shifted, eyes flicking over a small column of soldiers as they jogged passed in two lines. "I think, that your army is strong. Good order. Better order, than, Mama's army…" he confessed guiltily, eyes on the ground as they walked.

He didn't see Rome fight down a triumphant grin. "Don't worry; soon your people will be disciplined too. Imperator Iulius has already ordered for the formation of a Gallic legion," he said with a kinder smile.

Aurelius looked up at him. "A Gallic legion?"

Rome nodded. "Yes, part of an army."

The boy thought about this. "Not centurions?" he asked, head tilting.

"Well, centurions too, of course. In the cohorts," the republic elaborated.

Aurelius's brows knitted in confusion. Rome laughed. "Okay, so the army is composed of legions, right? Each legion is five thousand, two hundred forty men at full strength, and legions are broken down into ten cohorts, one first cohort, and one auxiliary cavalry unit—a cavalry unit is a hundred twenty men and horse. Each cohort contains four hundred eighty men, and is made of six centuria, which are eighty men each. The first cohort is a bit of an exception with only five centuria—so that's only four hundred men. The centuria—"

The young nation listened, desperately trying to keep the names and numbers straight as Rome rattled off the structure of his army like it was common knowledge. Which, Aurelius figured, it probably was, to Romans.

Rome was still explaining structure when they reached their tent, and Aurelius had him draw a detailed diagram. He continued to detail army structure as Aurelius poured over the picture, interrupting to ask questions. Why by eight, wasn't that confusing? What's an 'aquilifer'? Where do the archers go? And as they talked, Aurelius realized two things:

First, that Rome _really liked_ the army. His eyes lit up as he explained the importance of having a strong chain of command and universal orders, illustrating his speech with wild, exuberant gestures.

Second, that Aurelius kinda liked the army too. It was completely different from how Mama's men fought; everything fit inside each other like boxes and nothing was out of place. It was _interesting_.

So he listened closely and began to learn. That night, he dreamt he was praetor of the newly formed Gallic legion, leading his men to victory against nameless enemies.

Before, when he dreamt of war, the enemy had always been Rome.

-o-

This fic will be updated on a Monday-Thursday schedule, so check back Thursday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question (especially with increasing Latin terms and name changes), make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique (or praise!) in the reviews.


	7. Death and Rebirth

**Trigger warning: **noncon

-o-

Over the next few weeks Rome became more and more involved with Aurelius's education, drilling him on noun declensions and verb tense, explaining military organization and protocol, and teaching the Latin alphabet. From breakfast to lunch, while Rome was out, Aurelius sat at the table and painstakingly copied the sentences Rome had left for him, some easy, some hard. "The farmer's daughter misses her husband. Many different people are Roman citizens. The wolf prowls through the forest, looking for meat. If the Senate passes a consultation that contradicts a law passed by an Assembly, the law overrides the consultation." He then tried to compose sentences of his own, twenty of them, which Rome corrected after lunch. Then they talked military for a time, before Rome went off to meetings and left Aurelius to his own devices for the afternoon. He started to carve wooden figures—horses for cavalry, archers, infantry men—and arrange them in mock battles, ordering his soldiers across the wide world with the pure confidence only found in one wholly untested by the realities of commanding. He was always successful in his wars.

Rome looked on with pride, praising him for his improvements, his rapidly improving Latin, his legible letters. Aurelius glowed with that encouragement, and flourished.

The first snow came, blanketing the camp in white, quietly concealing the torn earth of the battle plain. Rome wrapped himself in thick wool cloaks and lingered by the charcoal braziers that heated the tents, grumbling about the cold as he tried to keep his hands warm. Aurelius curled under his wool cloak as well, and begged Rome for a pair of trousers and fur-lined boots. Rome resisted—Romans don't wear such things—but Aurelius pleaded with him, constantly reminding the republic of how cold it was, how he could hardly focus it was so cold. The incessant mention of temperature made certain that Rome never forgot how cold _he_ was either, and after three days of this he caved and ordered Aurelius to be given trousers and boots. He looked faintly ridiculous, Roman tunic with Gallic pants and boots, but he stopped talking about the weather, so Rome could get back to pretending that it wasn't freezing.

Then one week before Aurelius was to meet with Iulius, the commander summoned Rome to his tent and informed him that the scouts had come back with word of _five more rebellions_.

And they spoke of saving their nation.

Rome left the meeting silently, a scrap of fabric clenched in his fist, and summoned a contubernia from the first cohort of the tenth legion. And then he calmly marched into Alesia.

-o-

Gaul glanced tiredly up as Rome entered, wrapped in the scraps of her cloak. Was the man never sated for more than a few hours? She didn't know how long she could keep doing this. The steady loss of strength had slowed, but the continual poor food was damning. She had lost weight, her clothes hanging loosely from her shoulders and waist. She had to get out soon, _with_ Maponos.

Rome stopped just inside the door, and eight armed soldiers filed in after him. Gaul tensed, straightening in her seat, eying the other nation. His expression was perfectly unreadable, a neutral that Gaul had come to understand as a farce, only there to mask his true feelings. They watched each other wordlessly, neither moving.

"Seize her," he ordered simply.

The soldiers moved immediately, two each grabbing her arms and hauling her to her feet, dragging her towards Rome, who jerked his thumb at the door. Gaul snarled and fought, trying to wrench free, but her strength no longer allowed her to take on five grown men single-handedly. They forced her out into the snow, her bare feet stumbling over the frozen remains of a vegetable garden, and held her, grip digging painfully into her arms. Rome stood in front of her and she glared at him, chest heaving from the struggle. To Gaul's confusion, he shifted his gaze from her, over to her right hand, reaching out to forcibly uncurl her fingers. He stared for a few moments before letting go with a small shake of his head.

"I should have guessed as much," Rome said plainly. "You're not content with just sitting. You have to be doing something. Even something as minor as writing."

Gaul's breath caught in her throat, but to her credit she remained silent.

Rome unfolded the scrap of fabric and read aloud, "Tribesmen! Averni, Atrebates, Bellovaci, Ambiani, Viromandui, Caleti, Parisii, all! The Romans remain camped at Alesia, holding myself and Vercingetorix captive. They defile our land and our people, holding no respect for our sovereignty or dignity. But they are yet reeling! Their temporary victory has cost them greatly. Rise up, tribesmen! Smash the Roman army on your shields, impale them upon your blades, drive them out of our blesséd lands! Come to me, my peerless warriors, deliver me from the hands of the cruel enemy that we might reclaim all they have taken from us. Do not rest until they have been driven from our lands—with this, my tribesmen, I charge you! I, your spirit and your land, await you." He stopped, staring at the fabric a moment longer, before looking to Gaul.

Gaul said nothing, staring at the message, a sense of hopelessness slowly gnawing at her as she shivered. Belatedly, she realized it had been foolish to presume that merely writing in Gaulish was enough to conceal her messages. Of course Rome would've learned her tongue, if only to spy. She should've written in cipher. Pins and needles pricked her bare feet, the cold turning them a bright red.

"Commander, sir." The three soldiers not restraining Gaul emerged from the house, holding her make-shift supplies. They passed these to Rome, who turned them over in his hands, inspecting them.

"Very resourceful," he commented, then abruptly smashed the vial of ink against a near-by rock, splattering black across pristine snow. He shook some of the ink from his hand, remarking, "So I'd say this is a clear case of treason. Attempting to incite rebellion. Passing information to the enemy."

He looked back, then lunged, roughly grabbing her by the chin, yanking her face up to look at him. "If you weren't like me, I'd have you tortured to death, _slowly_," he hissed, fingers digging painfully. Gaul choked back a sound, the ink dripping down her throat in a mockery of blood. "You will be sent to Rome, to the Tullianum, where you will remain for the rest of your miserable life. You and Vercingetorix. You leave today. And you will _never_ see your son again-"

"No-!"

But first…" He released her chin and straightened. "A last encounter," he said, with a brief smile, before his gaze shifted to the soldiers. "Hold her down. You all can have a turn after me."

"_No!_" Gaul shrieked again, managing to jerk an arm free enough to elbow a soldier in the nose with a satisfying crunch, twisting in their grip, but someone hooked their arm around her neck and hauled her backwards, cutting off her air as they dragged her to the ground. She kicked furiously, clawing at the hand at her throat, someone shoved her skirt up, sharply tugged her trousers down, and Rome, Rome kneeling before her in the ink-stained snow, a triumphant, sickening grin plastered across his face.

She screamed her helpless fury at the sky.

-o-

"What happened to your hand?" Aurelius asked around a mouthful of deer.

Rome looked up from his wine. "Hm? Oh," he glanced at the faded ink stains. No amount of scrubbing could get the last bit of it off. "I split a bottle of ink on myself during a meeting with Marcus Antonius. Silly looking, isn't it?" he grinned.

Aurelius giggled and went back to his dinner. Rome stared at the stains a moment longer, before slowly clenching his fist.

-o-

A few days later, Rome cleared his throat during breakfast. "So, Aurelius. This morning you are coming with me to one of my meetings."

The boy sat up quickly. "I am?"

"Yes," Rome confirmed. "We are meeting with Gaius Iulius Caesar, Imperator of the army, governor of Cisalpine, Illyricum, and Transalpine."

Some of the excitement in Aurelius's eyes bled out. "Oh. Um, okay."

Rome leaned across the table and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Iulius is a good man; he just wants to get to know you. You'll do fine."

Aurelius nodded, unconvinced, and picked at the rest of his breakfast, appetite gone, until Rome stood. "Let's go."

Aurelius shadowed him through the camp, anxiety rising as they approached the commander's tent. Rome waited patiently for the praetorian to announce them, the formalities old and familiar to him, and glanced down to see Aurelius fidgeting with his tunic.

"You'll be fine," he reassured, smoothing down the boy's blond hair.

The praetorian returned and wordlessly held the tent flap open for them. Rome nodded his thanks and ducked in, Aurelius following reluctantly.

The tent was spacious enough to fit two large tables, one covered in maps off to the side and one in the centre laid out with fresh fruit and wine, surrounded by lounging sofas. In the back Aurelius could see a bed, partially hidden from view by hanging clothes so finely woven as to be sheer. The armour stand was mostly empty, save for the helmet, sword, and dagger. The man sitting at the centre table bore the rest of it; middle aged, with thinning fair hair and a strong nose. He stood as Rome approached, clasping his arms firmly as he greeted, "Romulus."

_Romulus?_ Aurelius puzzled, the name vaguely familiar, but pushed the thought away as the man turned his attention to him.

"Salve, Aurelius Gallicus," Iulius nodded. "I have heard many things about you."

He blinked. "You have? I mean—salve, Imperator Gaius Iulius Caesar," he corrected quickly.

The ghost of a smile passed over his face, but his reply was redirected. "Salve, Marcus!"

Aurelius turned to see another Roman enter, armoured but also unarmed. As the newcomer greeted Iulius and exchanged pleasantries, Aurelius did a quick rundown about what he knew of military decoration, hesitantly placing the man's rank as legatus.

"Aurelius, this is Marcus Antonius, legatus and tribune of the people. Marcus, this is Aurelius Gallicus, son of the fallen Gallia," Iulius stated, looking between them.

Aurelius swallowed and nodded, "Salve," mentally noted Marcus as Also Really Important, unconsciously shifting closer to Rome.

They took their seats around the table, Iulius across from Rome and Aurelius, Marcus to their right. Rome plucked a goblet of wine from a servant and sipped, quietly hoping that the boy's responses would be enough.

"So, Aurelius, what do you think of the camp?" Iulius asked, tone pleasant.

"Um, it's very ordered," Aurelius answered, trying to keep his hands still. "Everything has a place where it should be. Everyone has duties, they know their duties, and they listen." He paused, then added. "I think it's good."

The commander nodded. "And the army? What do you think of the army?"

"It's good," Aurelius said instantly, his fascination bleeding through as he replied. "Because the army is ordered, the soldiers know who gives orders, who to obey. They don't go everywhere, they focus, they attack where they're told. Everything gets done very quickly, very well. And the army can be broken up into smaller pieces, so you can always ask for the right number of men. It's very powerful. The army works very well."

Iulius and Marcus exchanged a brief glance. "What do you know about how the army is organized?"

The boy blinked. "What?"

"How is the army organized?" Iulius rephrased.

"Oh! The biggest unit is the legion, then cohort, then centuria, then contuberia, then soldier. A legion has ten cohorts, one first cohort, and one cavalry. A cohort has six centurii; the first cohort has five centurii. A centuria has ten contubernii; a contubernia has eight men. Cavalry is one hundred twenty men. Auxiliary can be quingenaria, five hundred men, or millaria, one thousand men. A legion at full strength is five thousand, two hundred forty men," Aurelius rattled off, pausing only when he stumbled over the Latin.

Rome hid a proud grin in his wine goblet.

"How are people ranked?"

"Low to high?"

"If it pleases you," Iulius dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Aurilus listed all the ranks from the regular soldier, milites, to the legatus, legion commander, then tribunus militum, praefectus, proconsul, and finally consul. He was beginning suspect that there was more to this meeting that Iulius simply wanting to 'get to know him', but he wasn't sure what.

"And imperator?"

"A consul who has won many great battles."

"What is my rank?"

"Imperator," Aurelius answered immediately.

"And Marcus?"

"Legatus."

"And Romulus?"

Aurelius hesitated, looking up at Rome. "Um…"

Rome rolled his eyes at Iulius. "That's a trick question." He looked back to Aurelius. "I'm a praepositus_._"

The boy's head tilted. "What is that?"

"Complicated," he laughed. "But what it means is that I can be place in temporary command of any unit. 'Officer-commanding'. If I'm commanding a legion, I'm addressed as praepositus legionis; for cohorts, praepositus cohortis, and so on."

"Ah…"

The examination went on. Iulius questioned him about unranked posts in the army, auxiliary units, if he knew the purpose of the praetorian guard. They gradually shifted towards the political structure of Rome—what was the Senate? How did one become a Senator? What could the Senate do? Aurelius's answers were simple ("A group of men who help rule Rome. People vote for them. The Senate makes consultations.") but not incorrect. The sensation that he was being judged steadily grew.

"Can the plebeian tribune veto acts of the Senate?"

"Oh that's hardly fair, Iulius!" Rome cut in. He turned to Aurelius. "According to the Constitution, the plebeian tribune can veto acts passed by the Senate, but Sulla's practically sacrilegious reforms some twenty years ago essentially crippled the people by resigning them to having powerless, unambitious tribunes. No offense, Marcus," he amended quickly.

Aurelius stared at him blankly. "I don't understand."

"I know, I haven't taught you this yet," Rome said with an apologetic smile. His gaze shot back to Iulius. "Are you satisfied?"

"Mostly, yes," the commander replied. Rome's shoulders started to sag with relief, until Iulius added. "But I have one last question for him."

Rome nodded. "Alright then."

Iulius paused. "I will ask him this question privately."

A jolt of anxiety shot through the republic. "Iulius, there is nothing you cannot ask him in front of me—"

"I insist," Iulius countered smoothly.

A tension briefly settled over the group, thick as a heavy snow. Finally Rome nodded, "We'll be nearby." He stood, giving Aurelius's shoulder a quick squeeze before following Marcus out.

Aurelius watched them go, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, before dragging his attention back to the imperator.

Iulius offered him what was meant as a reassuring smile. "I will be brief. A concern has been weighing heavily on my mind; I want to address it now, before it's too late." He paused, eyes searching the boy's face. "Aurelius Gallicus. Will you swear your allegiance to Rome?"

-o-

Outside, far enough away to be out of earshot, Rome paced, his agitation cutting swaths through the muddy slush.

"Why would he _do this_ to me?" Rome hissed in frustration. "What could he possibly want to ask Aurelius that I can't hear? That he doesn't _want_ me to hear?"

Marcus shrugged, arms crossed as he leaned against a post. "Perhaps he merely wants to see the boy without any outside influences."

"Without any—that is impossible, I _am_ his influence," Rome snapped. "I sculpt his thoughts on these matters as clearly as a potter does his clay."

"Then what are you worried about?" the tribune asked.

"Nothing. Everything. I don't _know_, Marcus, it's enough to make a man paranoid." Rome gestured vaguely towards the tent.

Marcus arched a brow. "You don't trust Iulius?"

Rome stopped dead. "No. I trust Iulius, I just—" He stopped, then exhaled heavily, exasperated. "I trust Iulius. He's the only leader I've trusted in a long time. I just, don't want this to go poorly…" He shook his head, staring at the churned up mud at his feet for a moment before shifting his gaze back to the tent. "Whatever the question is, I hope Aurelius answers it correctly."

-o-

Aurelius blinked. "Swear my allegiance to Rome?" he repeated slowly.

"Yes. Will you swear your allegiance to Rome?"

Iulius was studying him carefully, looking for anything that might give him a clue. Aurelius tried to keep his face neutral, polite, as a part of his head scrambled wildly for a footing, any footing. This was _Important_, this was—this was his first real decision as the guardian of his people. Would he swear allegiance to Rome, the republic that had conquered so much of his mother's lands, whose people had killed her during the major rebellion. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitating, before saying in his most formal grown-up voice. "I will need time to consider this."

Iulius shook his head. "No, Aurelius, I need your answer _now_." He stood, beckoning the boy to follow as he walked over to the map table. "These," he gestured to a few wooden figures scattered across the map, "are minor budding rebellions, numbering less than a few hundred men each. They are small, disorganized, and weak, with no ties of cooperation between them. These," he indicated several metal pieces grouped strategically by rivers and key passes, "are my legions. Soon I will begin a mop up campaign to eliminate the rebellions before they get out of hand."

Aurelius's eyes widened as he took in the board. There were six legions at their current camp; that alone was over thirty _thousand_ men. And Rome had explained that a legion could march fifteen millarium a day. Which meant that most of the rebellions were less than two days away. Rome had less men than Mama at Alesia, roughly two legion's worth. But he still won. And now he had several _thousands_ more men than any one of the rebellions, possibly more than all the rebellions combined. There was no way…

Iulius watched the realization dawn on the boy before shifting his gaze back to the board. "What could make the mop up campaign more difficult is if the rebels think that they're fighting for save their guardian nation. If they think that they're fighting to save you. What could make the campaign easier, what could save lives, is if their guardian nation accepts Roman authority. If you accept Roman authority." Iulius turned to face Aurelius. "Will you swear allegiance to Rome?"

Aurelius stared at the board. No matter how he looked at it, the outcome was the same: Rome wins. Even if all the rebellions banded together, Rome wins. "What happens if I swear allegiance?" he asked, not looking away.

"Once the governorships are set up, the people become Latin citizens; they have the right to own property, to serve in the military, to make legal contracts, to vote and hold public office—many things. And they will be protected by Rome from your enemies."

Aurelius nodded slightly, turning it over in his head. It… was not a bad idea. Rome was already raising him, wasn't he? He promised to help bring his people prosperity and glory. And citizenship meant that his people could do business with the Romans without any trouble, and could choose who they wanted to be in charge. Rome was going to win; having as few people die as possible should be his goal. He let out a breath, and looked back to Iulius.

"What do I have to do?"

-o-

Rome stood by Marcus, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands tucked into his sides. "This is ridiculous," he mumbled. "We've been out here for hours."

"It's not been hours," Marcus said patiently.

"Legatus, praepositus! The imperator bids you to return," a praetorian saluted.

"_Finally," _Rome gushed, hurrying back to the tent.

Iulius and Aurelius were waiting for them, standing by the centre table. The sombre atmosphere stopped Rome by the entrance, and his heart sank. Had, Aurelius not passed? He looked between them, faintly confused. "What is it?"

Aurelius glanced at Iulius, who gave the briefest of nods. Aurelius took a breath, then walked up to Rome, stopping in front of him before he went down on one knee, closed fist over his heart, and intoned.

"I, Aurelius Gallicus, son of Gallia, guardian of the Gallic people, swear to faithfully bear true allegiance to Romulus Latinus Julius, the Roman Republic, guardian of all his varied Roman peoples. I swear to defend the nation's rights and interests, and to do right to all manner of people after the laws and customs of the Constitution, whose democratic beliefs I share, whose rights and liberties I respect. This I swear with Iupiter and In Dagda as witnesses."

Silence. Rome stared, mouth open, then swallowed and shot Iulius a look—_what did you do? _But Iulius merely shrugged and nodded towards the boy, still kneeling at Rome's feet, head bowed. An incredulous smile started to curve the republic's lips.

"Rise, Aurelius Gallicus. Your allegiance is secured, your oath witnessed by the gods. From this day forth, you will be known as Aurelius Gallicus Romanus, adopted as my son," he pronounced.

Aurelius's head snapped up in surprise; Rome grinned back. As soon as Aurelius was on his feet, Rome swept him up in a tight embrace.

"Praise Iupiter, for today He has given me a son."

-o-

The oath Aurelius swore is actually a bastardization of several different national oaths, typically sworn when gaining citizenship or assuming public office.

This fic will be updated on a Monday-Thursday schedule- however, due to my work schedule this week and my decision to increase chapter length, I will be skipping next week's Monday update. Though if you add this fic to your Alerts, you won't have to worry about keeping up with the schedule. Please ask questions if you'd like; I've opted out of explaining in the footnotes every historical reference I make in the hopes of inspiring personal research, but you're more than welcome to ask me questions directly. You're also encouraged to make a comment or offer a thoughtful critique (or praise!) in the reviews.


	8. Politics and Parties

That night they had a feast. Iulius's tent was crowded with dozens of different people, legion commanders and other senior officers, musicians holed up in one corner, servants filtering among the guests refilling wine goblets and trays of food, and women drifting from one cluster of men to another. Every so often a pair would slip out of the tent into the snowy night and no one thought anything of it. Early into the night Rome had called everyone's attention, proudly introducing his newly adopted son, Aurelius. The assembled men broke into thunderous applause and cheers, clapping Rome on the back, squeezing Aurelius's shoulder in welcome until it ached. Aurelius clung to Rome's hand as he swept him through the tent introducing countless people, all with different names and ranks and placement within the army. It was noisy and overwhelming and everything was in Latin; he struggled to follow, stumbling over even phrases of which he was previously certain, but then Rome handed him a goblet and told him to drink up.

The evening got significantly easier after that.

"This is Tullus Cornelius Crispinus, first centurion of the 13th Legion Gemina," Rome said, bringing Aurelius to a halt by a man with a head full of curly brown hair.

"Pleased to meet you!" Aurelius bubbled, the goblet seeming huge in his small hands.

The centurion laughed. "Pleased to meet you too, little son of Rome! How goes your new life?"

"Well! I'm learning many new things!" Aurelius pronounced.

"Oh? Such as?"

"Latin!" he replied brightly. "Army, government, poetry—"

"Poety, eh? And what poems do you know?"

Aurelius paused. "Um—" He looked around quickly, then scrambled onto an open patch of table, wine sloshing over his hand. He straightened, facing the two amused men, then took a breath, reciting,

"Ah how shameless – the way these mortals blame the gods. From us alone they say come all their miseries yes but they themselves with their own reckless ways compound their pains beyond their proper share." Rome's face split into a grin by the first line, and when Aurelius finished, the whole tent burst into applause. He blushed and grinned, trying to follow what was being said.

"You've got a regular orator there, Romulus—"

"The next Homer—!"

"—another? Aurelius, speak another for us!"

"Okay, okay!" he agreed, holding his hand up in imitation of Rome. The babble died down and he giggled, pronouncing, "It is the wine that leads me on, the wild wine that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs, laugh like a fool – it drives the man to dancing. It even tempts him to blurt out stories better never told!"

The crowd roared with laughter. "What a clever child, to have already realized this!" "You'll spare yourself heartache knowing that so young!" "Again, Aurelius, another!"

"Hm…" They settled down again as he mused. Something else from Homer; what other passages did he remember? He had been slowly learning it, painstakingly reading and translating and trying to picture it: proud Telemachus; loyal Penelope; the wise Odysseus. "Ah!" He straightened again, holding his chin high, schooling his face into an expression of incredulity. "I cannot thrust the mother who bore me, who raised me, out of the house against her will. My father, alive or dead, is elsewhere in the world. It will be hard to pay back Ikarios, if willingly I dismiss my mother. I will suffer some evil from her father, and the spirit will give me more yet, for my mother will call down her furies upon me as she goes out of the house, and I shall have the people's resentment."

"Here, here!" The drunken men cheered loudly. Aurelius grinned, happily watching the hilarity, basking in the attention as men pat him on the back, showering him with praise as they poured him more wine. He missed Rome's quiet chuckle, the forced grin that twisted his lips before he drained his goblet, wincing at the bitter dregs.

-o-

Much later that evening, only Iulius and Marcus remained, sipping wine and talking quietly. The others had drifted out earlier, laughing and drunk, arms slung around the waists of pretty girls. Rome picked his way around the servants tidying up the residual mess, going to the sofa where Aurelius had passed out hours before from a combination of exhaustion and wine. The boy had managed to sleep through all the noise, occasionally shifting to curl up tighter, oblivious to the people who had paused to pet his golden hair, commenting on what a beautiful child he was.

_But not just beautiful_, Rome mused, brushing back a stray lock from the boy's face as he tucked a blanket around him. _Clever and beautiful. Eager and beautiful. Venus is not the only goddess who blessed his birth_.

He placed a gentle kiss on Aurelius's forehead and stood, moving to join the remaining men. To no one's surprise, the talk had settled on politics, and the trouble with Pompey.

"—and so far as I can tell, the whole Senate save myself and Quintus Cassius Longinus support Pompey as solo consul," Marcus complained to Caesar. "Which hardly makes any sense now, given that you're a war hero and the people's champion."

"Yes, but the Senate has long since shown that it cares little for the thoughts of the people—consider your own position," Iulius remarked dryly. He waved Rome over. "Romulus! Today I've received word that the Senate wants me to disband my army."

Rome's eyes narrowed. "What? That's _illegal_, you're allowed to keep your forces until the end of your term."

"Yes, but the Senate fears me, so this permits them to ignore the law as they see fit." Iulius sighed. "Infuriating. I've already sent a reply concerning the lingering rebellions, which should keep them off for a few months at least." He sighed. "I need to run for consul again."

"The Senate is completely sided with Pompey!" Marcus exclaimed, hands spread. "How do you hope to win?"

"If he doesn't win, the Senate will try to prosecute him for war crimes," Rome said quietly, thinking. The Senate wasn't actually the real problem—they were old aristocrats, resistant to change, but ultimately interested in maintaining the status quo for their own benefit. _It should be for _mine, Rome thought fiercely, _for _my _benefit, without which they have nothing!_ But he pushed his anger aside. No, the Senate was only a problem because Pompey was currently control them, with bribes and sweet lies and false promises. He would certainly block any attempt by Iulius for re-election as consul, and insist that he stand trial for war crimes. And with the Senate backing him… Rome shook his head. "I don't want Pompey as solo consul. It would be a disaster."

"I am of the same mind," Iulius said with a smile. "We have at least a year to figure out what we can do. Until then," he looked to his friend. "Marcus, I need you to return to the capital. You still have the people behind you; let them know what great things have been done for them here. Use your judgement. The Senate will likely try to make things difficult for you and Cassius Longinus, but you can return the favour."

Marcus nodded. "I will gladly do so, Iulius."

"And Marucs," Rome added. "When you return, will you also watch over my son Antonius?"

"Of course, Romulus."

The commander smiled briefly. "Well then, I'd like to have a word with Romulus before I retire for the night."

They exchanged well wishes; Rome watched Marcus go, before flopping onto an empty sofa. "It's times like these when I hate the Senate," he grumbled, scrubbing his eyes.

"The institution is sound; sadly the people are not," Iulius commented as he also took a seat. "What do you think of all this?"

"I think Pompey would love to bankrupt you into oblivion," Rome said scathingly. "I think he takes after his father—greedy, militarily ruthless, and politically two-faced. I think he'd do a spectacularly good job of running my republic into the ground."

Iulius chuckled. "Is that all?"

"No, it isn't. I think he's blind to the implications of his own politico-military history, and I think he's dragging us into a war."

The commander arched a brow. "You think he's dragging us into a war?"

"Yes!" Rome shot upright. "He wants to ruin you politically and economically, for his own personal gain. He's currently at the capital, manipulating the Senate. Meanwhile, you're out here, with _six loyal legions_ at your command."

"Pompey is not going to come out here and fight me."

"I know that," Rome replied with a forced evenness. "I'm not saying he'd fight you out here."

Iulius fell silent. After a long minute, he began slowly, "But _imperium_ is forbidden in Italia—"

"Mmhm," Rome nodded.

Iulius stared at him. "Were you not who you are, I would call that statement treasonous."

The republic grinned. "Good thing I am who I am then." He sighed and stood. "I don't know, Iulius. That's what I see. On the one hand, crippling public humiliation and political exile, if not death, with that greedy little bastard running things; and the other, war. I have a personal preference, but I'm not you."

Rome scooped Aurelius up off the couch, still blissfully asleep, and turned back. "I'm off to sleep. If you come up with a different option, let me know. Good night, Iulius."

The commander hummed his reply, lost in thought. Rome left, crunching through the snow back to his own tent, and tucked Aurelius in before stripping down himself and following. He laid awake for a time, considering everything, but the child's warmth pressed against his side drew him down into sleep.

-o-

The next day the trumpet blare startled both guardians from sleep. Aurelius buried his head under the pillow as Rome swore, stumbling out of bed.

"Regimented breakfast, _today_ of all days, are you fucking serious, Iulius?" he grumbled, turning back to the bed. "Hey, Aureilus, get up; we have orders," he said, shaking the child.

Aurelius whined and refused to move. Rome sighed. "Up we go!" he declared, wrenching the sheets off the bed.

The boy shrieked, sitting bolt upright. "No! It's cold, give it back!"

"If you're cold, get dressed!" Rome replied, tossing the sheet aside before he turned for his toga. Aurelius flailed unhappily for a bit before realizing that he wasn't going to get him the slightest reprieve, and launched himself off the bed at Rome, latching onto his leg, flattening himself against the older man.

"Whoa, hey, what are you doing—?"

"I'm _cold!_" Aurelius moaned, shivering.

Rome rolled his eyes with a sigh and detached his son from his leg, reaching for the boy's tunic with one hand. "Here, be warm," he stated, looping the top over Aurelius's head and tugging it down before nudging the boy aside. "Your cloak's at the foot of the bed."

Aurelius quickly wrapped himself in the cloak, rubbing his arms fiercely. "Why's the fire not lit?" he complained. His body felt as heavy as lead, his head full of cotton.

"Can't light the fire this morning," Rome grumbled, fastening his toga in place.

"_Whaaaaat? _But it's cold!_"_

"We're breaking camp," the republic clarified, moving to grab his own cloak before heading out of the tent. "Come on, breakfast, then we're out."

Aurelius groaned miserably, plopping on the cold ground just long enough to drag on his fur boots before springing after Rome. The clouded sky shed just enough light to make the light snowfall painful to look at, and Aurelius tried to look anywhere else but there. Soldiers were grouped together just outside their tents, eating quickly, while servants hurried about carrying bundles of branches, stacking them by the entrenchments. Rome returned the salutes with a nod as they passed, heading straight to Iulius's tent.

"So, Imperator, where are we off to now?" he asked loudly as they entered.

Iulius looked up from his own breakfast. "Shouldn't you be eating?"

"That's what I'm here for!" Rome grinned, sitting down with Aurelius at his side.

A servant quickly brought them food; Aurelius looked at it and felt slightly queasy, but picked at it regardless.

Rome had no such issue. "What's our destination, Iulius?" he repeated around a mouthful of food.

"Day's march north of here. I'm curious to see what the rebels will do: scatter, surrender, or ready for battle."

"And if they ready for battle?"

Iulius smiled slightly. "Then we engage. Though it would be much more convenient if they simply surrendered." His eyes flicked to Aurelius.

Rome followed his gaze. "Ah. Yes, well, there may be other ways to gain their cooperation. The equites—"

"—is one possibility, yes," the commander agreed. "Native to native has proved useful in the past. Though guardian to native—"

"—might have the unintended side-effect of strengthening their resolve," the republic countered.

Aurelius glanced between them, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Um, I can help, if you need me to," he offered quietly.

"Thank you, son; we'll have to see what the situation calls for," Rome replied quickly, before Iulius could speak. "Correct, Imperator?" He smiled pleasantly at the man, who frowned faintly.

"Yes; we'll gauge their initial reaction first and go from there," he acquiesced, finishing up his breakfast.

_Ha_, Rome thought smugly, before turning back to Aurelius. "Eat your breakfast now."

The boy nodded and nibbled at a little more of it, before mumbling. "I don't feel good…"

"You don't feel good?" Rome repeated, concerned.

Aurelius nodded, remaining hunched over his plate. "My tummy hurts and my head's fuzzy and I'm tired and it's _cold_," he whimpered.

_Too much to drink last night, _Rome realized. "Don't worry; you just need some chamaemilla," he soothed, lightly rubbing the boy's back as he gestured to a servant.

Aurelius nodded mutely and scooted closer to Rome's side, who draped his cloak over him and turned back to his own meal. Aurelius set his own meal aside and pulled the extra cloak tighter, encasing himself against Rome, eyes shut. He tried not to think about how sick he felt, tried to focus on Rome's steady breathing, on the hollow of warmth he had built between cloak and nation. A few minutes later Rome shifted, handing him a ceramic cup filled with a warm tisane. Aurelius wrapped his hands around it and sniffed, then tentatively poked his tongue out. _Oh_, he knew what this was; Mama used to make it for him, at night before bed when he was sore and achy from a long day. She put honey in it though… A familiar little ache opened up just under his heart; he sipped the tisane again, hoping it would lessen that pain too.

Rome had just finished his own meal when the trumpets blared again.

"Alright! Time to break camp. How're you doing, Aurelius?" Rome asked, setting his plate aside, mentally noting how little the boy ate.

Aurelius shrugged. "It's good. Mama used to make this for me," he added, a hint of sadness slipping into his voice.

Rome nodded, longing for the day when _she_ would stop cropping up in conversation. "Chamaemilla's good medicine. Come on, let's go." He picked him up, setting Aurelius over his hip, careful not to dump tisane on either of them. "See you on the march, Iulius!" he saluted.

Outside, soldiers were beginning to take down their tents, packing their rucksacks and loading up supply wagons, stamping out the few scattered cooking fires, grumbling about the cold. The cavalry—_Gaulish_, Aurelius hadn't believed it at first—were saddling their horses, checking bridles and straps, much more comfortable in their thick, fur-trimmed clothes.

Most of Rome's things were already packed away by the time they reached the tent. Rome set him down on a loaded supply wagon and pitched in, effortlessly hauling the last few chests onto wagons by himself and readying his horse. Aurelius drank his tisane, watching quietly, absently curious. Rome sauntered back over when they finished.

"What do you say we ride together, eh? That way you can rest." He didn't wait for an answer, lifting Aurelius under the arms and setting him in the saddle, before swinging up behind him. From the new vantage point, Aurelius could see that the camp was almost completely gone, the well-trodden paths between tent rows the only major indication to the previously existing order. Rome nudged their horse forward and they joined a line of soldiers filing out the gates, where everything abruptly split and fanned out across the battle plain, rough blocks of soldiers beginning to take shape as the men organized themselves around tall, decorated standards. Wagons trundled over to a long train of supplies. He and Rome trotted off to the left, towards a standard decorated with a bull, as a trumpet sounded again.

"Stand by to march," Rome mumbled to himself, as the men around them all quickly fell into lines. Aurelius's gaze darted about in amazement as suddenly thousands of men formed neat, precise rows, organized from legion all the way down to contubernia, with no guidelines save for each other. Rome wheeled them around to line up with the first cohort of their legion, and Aurelius caught sight of—

"Fire!" he exclaimed, pointed wildly. "The camp's on fire!"

The flames were already rapidly enveloping the entrenchments, the wooden stockade wall blackening under the heat. Rome nodded, correcting, "The _remains_ of the camp are on fire. It's razed to the ground to ensure that it cannot be used by our enemies."

"But now you can't go back there," Aurelius said, brow furrowed as he twisted in his seat to look up at Rome.

"Yes. Now we cannot go back," Rome repeated firmly.

Aurelius paused, eyes on him, then settled back down, facing forward, and watched as fire consumed the camp, and the remains of Alesia. _Now we cannot go back_.

Movement at the front of the column drew his eye: Iulius rode to the center, his plumbed helmet and scarlet cloak matching Rome's. He looked every bit of a commander, of an imperator, dressed in crimson as the camp burned behind him. The troops quieted, stilling, until the only sound was the roar of the fire. Aurelius waited, breath held.

"Soldiers!" Iulius shouted, his voice carrying over the masses. Aurelius felt Rome straighten in his saddle.

"Soldiers!" he repeated, then, "Are you ready!"

"Ready!" Rome's shout and the all-encompassing yell startled Aurelius so badly he jumped, dumping the last bit of his tisane on his cloak.

"Are you ready!"

"_Ready!"_

"I said! Are you ready!"

"_**Ready!" **_the men roared, and then silence that fell after was absolute. Aurelius didn't dare move, the tension in the air coiled so tight he couldn't breathe.

He saw Iulius nod. "Fall, in! Forward, march!"

The whole company shifted as the men collapsed into marching formations just as orderly as they formed their units, and began marching away from the camp. Aurelius let his breath out quietly.

Rome shifted, laying a hand across Aurelius's chest, and laughed. "Your heart's _racing_, Aurelius!" he grinned.

Aurelius looked up at him, the Roman Republic, smiling at him in the midst of his forces, trained men willing to fight and die for him, whose thunderous replies seemed to shake the earth itself, yet marched silent as the grave into battle. He wet his lips, trying to find his words.

"It's—"

_Terrifying, powerful, overwhelming, unbelievable, breath-taking—_

He shook his head slightly, and whispered, awe-struck, "I want an army like this."

Rome laughed harder. "And so you shall have one, son! And so you shall have one…"

Still chuckling, he turned his attention forward, to the long twisting train of soldiers stretched out over the land. Aurelius settled back against Rome, wrapping the crimson cloak around them both.

He would have an army like this too, he decided. One day, he would have a spectacularly grand army.

-o-

Why yes, I did sneak in a subtle reference to Napoleon! Aurelius quotes from Homer's _The Odyssey_ at the party, and I'm going to let you wonder about what the _i__mperium_ is.

This fic updates on a Monday-Thursday schedule, so check back on Monday for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques and praises if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to post a link to this story on your site, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. Thank you kindly.


	9. Debate and Responsibility

The march itself was boring. The men marched around them, a great river of flashing silver and sharp pikes snaking over the land. Some made quiet conversation to their neighbours but most were silent, absorbed in their own thoughts, the steady clink of their armour providing a backdrop to chatter of their minds. Rome was like that for a while as well, before Aurelius's restless fidgeting prompted him to tell stories. They ate their midday meal in the saddle, taking brief stops only when necessary to relieve themselves before hurrying back to their place in the formation. It was monotonous and dull, and Aurelius dozed off a few times before they reached their destination.

Rome pulled the horse to a stop and gently roused his sleeping son. "We're at the next camp," he explained, as Aurelius blinked sleepily and stretched.

"What now?" he yawned.

Rome dismounted and plucked Aurelius off the saddle after him, setting him steadily on the ground. "You keep out of the way."

The exploratores had selected a relatively clear hilltop for the new site—good drainage, defensible, and you could see approaching armies, Aurelius noted in his new military awareness. He hung back and watched as the contubernii organized themselves to dig entrenchments and build squat, fortified guard towers. Regardless of how long they might be staying, the camp always dug in, the first row of tents placed 180 pedes back from the wall. This, Rome had told him, prevented enemy artillery fire from reaching the men, as well as gave them plenty of room to call up legions in formation. It still amazed him, how much _sense_ the Roman camp made.

Slowly the camp appeared, disentangling itself from supply wagons and serving hands to unfold in neat ordered lines over the hilltop. Aurelius lost track of Rome somewhere between watching the horses corralled, their tack removed and their coats brushed back to gleaming, and lending a hand to a soldier pitching his tent. He wandered through the rows and helped ferry things from wagon to tent location, frequently staggering under the weight meant for a grown man and a trained soldier. He followed a guard up a completed lookout tower and managed a glimpse of the surrounding countryside before getting chased out. He started a fire for an injured soldier with deep gashes bandaged on his arm and dragged over plenty of large branches to ensure that the blaze continued. He tried not to be bored.

"Aurelius!"

He looked up from the healer's chest of strange implements to see Rome striding towards him and guilty scrambled to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Rome asked, glancing into the physician's tent. The man was nowhere in sight.

"Helping," Aurelius defended.

The republic sighed. "Why don't you come with me?" Without waiting for a response, he took the boy by the shoulder and steered him towards the completed entrenchments. The sun was melting into a bloody puddle in the west, shedding an eerie red glow over the trampled snow, staining Rome's armour a strange rosy colour. They stopped at the base of a guard tower and Rome sent him up the ladder.

"You again—stay on the ground, kid," the guard scowled as Aurelius poked his head up through the floor's entrance. He faltered, glancing down.

"He's with me, soldier!" Rome called up, nodding encouragingly to Aurelius before following after him. He straightened, returning the offered salute as he glanced out to the horizon reflexively. "What do think, son?"

The term sounded strange on Rome's lips. Aurelius pushed the thought aside and looked out over the leafless tree tops in the distance, their bare branches like gnarled hands stretching soundlessly up to the heavens from the sunset drenched snow. It looked as if the entire land heralded their coming by bathing the forest in blood, to warn away anyone that might stray too close to the Roman camp. He blinked, then squinted. "Is that smoke?"

"That's the village of Tricasses," Rome nodded. "Our target. The scouts are out now, to determine their response to our arrival." He paused, then asked curiously. "Which of your people live there?"

"Tricasses?" Aurelius had never been there himself, but he knew the people. "The Lingones, mostly. Probably Senones too, maybe some Parisii. I dunno—everyone's moving around now, on account of the—" _invasion_, he wanted to say, but that sounded, like what he shouldn't say to Rome. "The changes," he amended lamely.

"I see…" Rome braced his elbows on the low wall, leaning against it in complete trust of his engineers' skill. "And how do they get on?"

Aurelius shrugged. "They have their rivalries. The Senones and the Parisii don't really like the Lingones, since, um, they gave you their loyalty…" But Rome didn't seem the least bit affected, so he continued. "The Senones and the Parisii both fought with Vercingentorix, but they listened to their own leaders and not anybody else's. It's, probably a reason why we lost," he frowned, realizing the truth of it as he spoke. He looked back to the smoke, thin grey tendrils lazily curling up to the darkening sky. "Are you going to attack them?"

The question drew Rome out of his musings of how to convince the Lingones to inform about the other two. He gave himself a few seconds before he replied sincerely, "Only if I have to. I would much rather they surrender."

Aurelius nodded. "I don't want anyone to die."

Rome smile sympathetically. "Neither do I, Aurelius." _Dead men don't pay taxes_.

Movement on the bare hillside drew their gaze—the exploratores were returning, cutting a path through the snow.

"Excellent! Let's see what they have to say!" Rome vanished down the tower's hatch, leaping to the ground from half-way down the ladder.

"Wait, wait!" Aurelius called, taking the ladder two rungs at a time. Rome didn't hear him, or at least didn't respond, heading for Iulius's tent. Aurelius's feet hit the dirt and he took off after the republic at a run, darting between soldiers. The exploratores rode into camp and dismounted, also heading straight for Iulius's tent. Aurelius sprinted, and skidded to a halt at their heels just as they reached the entrance. He followed them in, slipping around their legs and over to Rome, who stood nonchalantly behind Iulius's chair.

"Sorry—" Aurelius started, but Rome quickly shushed him as the scouts saluted.

"Imperator, we bring news of the Gallic village Tricasses, of its people and of its design," the leading scout stated.

"Speak then."

"Tricasses is a village of small stature, surrounded by farmland and pasture for at least a milles in all directions. The village itself is enclosed by a stout wooden wall some ten pedes high, with two gates—one in the north side, the other in the south. Save for the wall, the village has no entrenchments and no fortifications; we also did not see any siege engines. We observed in the village a great commotion, seeing among the hustle men sharpening their blades, repairing their armour, and equipping women, children, and elders with food stuffs before expelling them from the village," the man recited, standing stiffly at attention.

"What are your estimates of their numbers?" Iulius asked.

"Likely under a thousand," the man replied. "It seems their village has been swollen with many refugees, straining their capacity to support themselves through the winter."

"Good to know. Anything else of note?"

"They appear to be desperately trying to dig in."

Iulius nodded. "Thank you for your report. Bring word to the guard to be on watch for possible preliminary attacks; nothing smaller than a contubernia leaves the camp, to deter ambush. Dismissed." The soldiers began to file out; Iulius added. "You as well, Aurelius."

Rome straightened. "What?"

"There is something I wish to discuss with you in private," Iulius responded calmly.

Aurelius saw Rome's fists clench, then open, before he nodded. "Our tent is at the end of this row, behind the Fretensis aquila. We'll only be a few minutes, okay?" Rome smiled, comfortingly, and Aurelius was struck by the similarity to Mama's smile, that one she gave when something was wrong only she didn't want him to know, so she smiled and sent him off on one task or another. He tried to see past it, staring up at Rome, but the sheen in his dark eyes shifted, whispered _no, boy, this isn't yours to understand, _obey me_ and go_. Aurelius dropped his gaze and nodded quickly, fur-cuffed boots scuffing across the tent rug as he left.

Rome waited until the tent flap fell back into place before coming around the chair, commenting lightly, "Sounds like preparing for a battle to me." He stopped directly in front of Iulius.

"So it does. Though it might be avoidable," the commander replied.

Rome searched Iulius's face, the lines etched into his brow, the corners of his eyes, little valleys borne of stress and laughter and age. "I know what you're planning, Iulius. And a surrender with no risk to our men would be wonderful, a blessing—you know I hate fighting in the snow and slush. What I don't like is the _cost_," he emphasized the word, turned it hard and rough on his tongue. The opening statement to a debate.

"You think he cannot do it?" Iulius asked plainly.

"I think he is as old as I was when I was carried kicking and screaming out of a burning Troy and made to wander ten years without a home, and never once was I commanded to implore those men to lay down their arms and surrender!" Rome snapped.

"You know as well as I do that we are going to win regardless of their choice to fight or not—"

"Yes, Iulius, I realize this but you don't understand—" He stopped, took a breath. "Consider: what if he cannot persuade them? Why would that be?"

One salt and pepper brow arched. "Because he is a child and lacks the oratory skills to sway a crowd from bloodlust."

"Yes. And further?"

"Further?"

"Yes, _further_. Iulius, he is as I am. We're not like you, like the men outside. We _feel_ our people, deeply. It's—" He gestured futilely, trying and failing to find some comparison. "We are both parent and child of our peoples. I seek to guide them, protect them, love them as my children; my chest swells with pride to think of all they have accomplished and yet—I crave their approval. Their loyalty, their trust, their love, it _sustains _me. To be denied by one's people, oh, imagine the dart through your chest, should one's children ever deny the father. It's crushing, impossible to ignore, for unlike a father, I am wholly dependent on my people for my own self. I am _defined_ by them," Rome stressed, pacing, agitated, in the space before the commander's chair. "Do you see, what that would do to Aurelius? Place him before his people, dressed as we dress, when he has been living with us, and ask him to compel them to surrender? Why should they trust him? Why should they not despise us more, having moulded him to our own designs?"

"But," Iulius interrupted, a hand held up in peace. "Since he is as you say their guardian, does the bond that ties guardian to people not run also the opposite course? Of all people we might place before the villagers, surely he through his very nature will arouse their sympathy."

"His _mother_," Rome hissed, "still lives. Who can say if that tie has been knotted yet, or still hangs between them, loosely held by both sides, present but not binding?"

Iulius's eyes narrowed. "You should have executed her weeks ago—"

"I am saving her for our _triumph_," Rome spat. "And you will not deny me this."

"Your ego threatens to condemn to death the lives of my soldiers by forcing them into a battle that could have been otherwise avoided—"

"My _ego_—we have always paraded our enemies in the triumph, since triumphs have been held. Iberia was marched, with her leaders; so too will Gallia, with Vercigentorix as your attendant captive," Rome retorted.

"My men—"

"_Wrong_, Iulius!" Rome shouted, whirling on the seated commander, bracing himself on the armrests, caging the older man. "_My_ men. My soldiers. They fight for me, just as you fight for me."

To his credit, the consul didn't flinch, meeting Rome's gaze with steely eyes. "So you would throw their lives away to maintain your pride," he said cooly.

Rome stiffened, hackles rising. "I would prevent a potential reenergizing of the rebels, when they see the young guardian under enemy influence," he growled.

Iulius was unmoved. "Why are you so convinced he will fail?"

Rome pushed back from the chair, gesturing broadly. "I see in him a tender spirit, which, when placed too near an impassioned blaze faced with immanent extinguishment, will respond in kind, flaring up in the same rebellious fervor that grips them in their folly. He will sympathize with them, empathize with them, and then we will crush them. And he will feel betrayed."

A sound of understanding hummed in Iulius's throat. "I see. You do not seek to protect him so much as you seek to maintain your influence over him," he clarified with a bemused smile.

Rome shot him a look. "I desire both. How fortunate that they are so closely intertwined." He smiled bitterly.

Iulius shook his head with a sigh. "You are a ruthless politician."

The republic allowed a grin. "I think that's the best back-handed compliment you've given me yet."

A smile ghosted over the commander's feature before they melded back to a somber visage. "So you will not consent to sending him to speak with the rebels?"

Rome huffed. "I don't know. I don't like the risk, but I'd rather not make my men fight in this cold…" His gaze flicked up to the tent's canvas ceiling. Gods, but did he miss the balmy weather from home. If only they could engineer a surrender. What a gift it would be. And the precedent it could set for the other organizing rebels… A patient silence stretched between them, broken by Rome's defeated sigh. "He can go. So long as he has two praetorians with him, and two from the equites."

"Done," Iulius consented instantly. "I will hand pick his guard myself."

"If this backfires," Rome warned, "it's going to cause me a lot of grief." _And possibly cost me a son._

"I understand," the imperator said gravely. "I will do everything I can to ensure that it goes smoothly, and will accept your blame if it does not."

Accepting the blame would mean very little if the experience damaged Aurelius beyond repair. But the republic nodded, and sent for a guard to fetch him.

-o-

When the guard appeared, Aurelius dropped his carving, the rough shape of a boar beginning to show through the wood, and followed him without a word back to Rome. The winter stars gleamed cold and bright in the cloudless sky, an inky cloak thrown over the heavens. The camp was surprisingly quiet; most of the soldiers turned to their warm beds as soon as the sun went down, leaving only the silent guards awake. Aurelius mirrored that silence and ducked into the tent without a word. Both republic and commander turned to him immediately, fixing him with such grave stares that he stopped just inside, worried. Was something wrong?

"Come here, Aurelius," Rome waved him over, standing beside Iulius's seat.

He did so, leaving a respectable distance between himself and the imperator, as he had seen the exploratores do earlier. His small hands fidgeted with his tunic belt as he looked between the two, the ends slowly fraying under his fingers.

"Aurelius," Iulius began, drawing the boy's attention. "Yesterday I explained to you the situation with the rebellions. Tell me, do you see any way that they might win?"

Was this a trick? Did Iulius know something he didn't? Or did he think _Aurelius_ knew something he didn't? He hesitated, then shook his head slightly. "No, Imperator."

Iulius continued. "As you heard from the exploratores, Tricasses is preparing for battle. This is unfortunate, given how many of their lives will be lost in the battle. Those surviving warriors who are captured will be sold into slavery to fund the funeral expenses for those of my men who will inevitably fall as well."

Aurelius's eyes widened slightly as the commander spoke. Sold into slavery—but of course he knew that, when he had been put in the pens, before Rome had found him, didn't he realize that he would be sold? And yet it had completely slipped his mind, he didn't stop to wonder where the prisoners had gone. They had been sold, carried far away to the south, passing from hand to hand throughout Rome's territories, maybe even to other nations. Now again his people would be ripped from their homes again and forced to bow to another's will. He swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry.

"However," Iulius paused, pale grey eyes watching Aurelius closely. "were they to surrender without a fight, they would retain their freedom. By swearing their allegiance to Rome, they would be Latin citizens, as I've told you, free to do business and continue their lives. To that end, we wish to send a group to parlay with their leader, in the hopes of gaining their cooperation."

Realization dawned. "You want me to ask them to surrender," Aurelius said plainly.

Iulius nodded. "Yes, if you are willing. I understand that this is a difficult thing to ask of you; if you would rather remain here, I can select another to—"

"No," Aurelius said firmly, drawing himself up. Butterflies unfurled in his stomach, but he forced the sensation down. "They're my people. It's my job to protect them."

Rome felt a flush of pride. Strong boy. "Thank you, Aurelius. You're going to save a lot of people," he said solemnly.

"I don't want anyone to get killed," he mumbled, nervously tucking a strand of blonde behind his ear.

Rome smiled and came over, crouching down to pull his son into a tight embrace. "Don't worry," he murmured soothingly, one hand stroking Aurelius's soft hair. "You'll save them."

Aurelius nodded, wishing he felt as confident as Rome sounded, clinging to Rome until the republic pulled back slightly.

"Now, listen closely, and I'll tell you exactly what you have to say," Rome began.

By the time they left Iulius's tent, the Great Warrior was sinking over the trees in the western sky. They laid down for sleep in silence, Aurelius tucked up next to Rome for warmth and comfort, head swimming with phrases and information and promises to bring to the rebels. Surrender, and we will spare your lives. Surrender, and your women will be untouched. Surrender, and you will remain free in your own homes. Surrender, or face certain destruction.

_Please_, he prayed as he drifted off to sleep. _Please let them believe me_.

-o-

I apologize for the terribly late update! The holiday coupled with life getting under foot gave me very little time to write. With any luck, I'll have a new job shortly, but my current work is picking up such that I need to reduce my updates to once a week on Monday. I hope you'll stick with me as we continue to witness Aurelius's childhood under Rome. Check back on Monday for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques and praise if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to post a link to this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc.


	10. Failure and Ruin

The high winter sun had turned the snow field into a glaring blind spot that had his guards alert and ready on their own horses, wary of a possible attack before they had a chance to reach the village. Aurelius was oblivious to this concern, blue eyes unfocused as he tried to ignore the lapping waves of anxiety. The morning had been spent on last minute preparations: Rome had argued with Iulius for easily a half a _horae_ about what Aurelius should wear—Roman clothes? Or Gallic garb? Eventually they settled on Aureilus's blend between the two, to 'demonstrate his position as an ambassador between Romans and Gallics'. He didn't feel like an ambassador. He felt like he was going to throw up. Silently, he reviewed what Rome had instructed him to say as his opening statement:

_We come to your village with glad tidings—we seek not war, but a peace between us. Your hearts are stirred up in anger, fearing that we have come to make all Gallic people slaves. This is false! We desire only peace, and will not attack you unless you leave us with no other recourse. But know that our numbers are great; should you decide to test our might in combat, you will be defeated, your lives lost and your women scattered. This is not a threat so much as a solemn promise. I stress that we do not wish it so—make peace with us, and no harm shall befall you._

Aurelius felt lucky simply to remember all of it. He had no idea how he was going to actually present it. The closer they drew to the village, the more Aurelius feared that Rome had made a huge mistake, entrusting this diplomacy to him. If he failed, hundreds of people were going to die—he forcibly stopped himself, taking a deep breath as his heart raced in his chest. No, it would be okay. He would say his part, and if any asked him questions, he would repeat that they didn't want to fight, that they wanted peace, just as Rome instructed him. It would be okay.

"On guard—the village gates are ahead," the leading praetorian warned. Aurelius's stomach summersaulted and he sat straighter in the saddle.

They weren't immediately shot as they rode up to the village gates, which Aurelius hoped was a good sign. None of them were carrying shields, a fact that automatically placed them at the mercy of enemy archers—another thing Iulius and Rome had argued over. Ultimately they agreed to no shields, banking on the hopes that the sight of a Gallic child and no attack force would be enough to stay their hand. Aurelius had to wonder if all negotiations rested so heavily on risk taking and prayers.

"Stop!" A loud commanding voice rang out, and the Gaulish cavalry leader held up a hand to do so. Aurelius realized that having a praetorian and an equites in front was more than a presentation of existing cooperation between the Romans and the Gauls: it allowed for the very necessary translation of Gaulish into Latin for the praetorians, and ensured that Aurelius wouldn't have to split his focus between negotiating and translating. Gods, Rome was good at this.

"State your business!" demanded the warrior perched inside the wall, bow at the ready. He was part of a line, five archers with arrows nocked. One for each of them.

The leading equites raised his head. "We come to parley with the village head," he answered firmly, unruffled. Aureilus mentally thanked him—he didn't think his own voice would carry that far.

The guard vanished for a brief spell, and Aurelius held his breath. _Please talk with us, please_. The praetorians eyed the archers warily; the archers didn't glance away for a second. What felt like an infinite amount of time later, the guard reappeared.

"Rix Moritasgos will speak with you," he announced, and the gate began to creak open.

Aurelius exhaled, the spark of relief quickly overshadowed by the task before him. They were in; now to convince his proud, strong people to surrender…

They passed under the gate and the archers held their fire; the hairs on the back of Aureilus's neck prickled, and he knew they were still fully within range. A huge crowded stood waiting just inside the town, a throng of men ringing the open space of what would normally be a market. Whispers passed among them, angry looks and dark glances and Aurelius gripped his reins tighter before guiltily forcing himself to relax. Was he really afraid of his own people?

A man separated himself from the crowd; tall, with wild chestnut hair and a stern face, the hard times etched in deeply around his mouth. He wore no armour, a cloak of wolf skin clasped around his broad shoulders, and his hand rested on the pommel of a long, heavy sword sheathed at his side. If this, along with the deference shown to him as he moved, was not enough indication, the crown of beaten gold at his brow unmistakably marked him as king. Aurelius took a breath and let it out slowly. This was his focus.

"Speak your names!" Moritasgos commanded, his voice casting a silence over the crowd. "Who seeks an audience with me?"

"I do," Aurelius answered loudly, pleased that his voice didn't shake. He slid off his horse, realizing that it might seem insulting to the king, having to look up to negotiate with a child. "I am—" _What name do I use?_ "—Aurelius Gallicus Romanus, called Maponos in my youth, son of Epasias Gaul, guardian of the Gaulish people."

Stunned silence, then whispers shot through the crowd like lightning. The king's brow knotted in confusion, overlaid with a caution Aurelius didn't expect. He held a hand behind him to quiet the onlookers as he asked, "Maponos? Epasias's son?" he repeated in disbelief, walking up to him slowly, taking in the Roman tunic, the Gaulish winter boots, the Roman cloak pinned with a Gaulish clasp. He shook his head faintly, baffled. "What are you— Explain yourself," he demanded, though his tone wasn't sharp.

This was it—and abruptly Aurelius felt everyone's eyes on him, pinning him where he stood. "I—um, we- we come to your village with glad tidings," he stuttered, cheeks burning as he struggled to recall the words. "We seek not war, but peace between us. You think Rome wants to make you slaves, but that's not true. He wants, desires only peace, and won't attack you unless you don't give him a choice. He doesn't want to fight you, but if he has to, he will. And his numbers are great; if you fight him, you will be defeated, and a lot of people will die, and anyone left will be sold into slavery." His words were coming faster and faster, fear for his people infusing his tongue and destroying the carefully prepared speech he had rehearsed with Rome. "But Rome doesn't want this either! Make peace, and we promise no harm will befall you."

An icy wind blew powdered snow through the market space, swirling around their feet. For a moment, no one spoke.

"So this is how Rome acts," the king broke the silence, his voice hard. "He sends a child, to bid us surrender." He turned his back on Aurelius, addressing his people with a flourish. "He sends the _son of our land_ to ask us to renounce our freedom!" The people scowled and grumbled as Moritasgos returned his attention to Aurelius. "Tell me, boy, how can you do this? How can you come here, bearing a _Roman name_, asking us to surrender? Your mother is our spirit; you _disgrace_ her by your treacherous betrayal!"

Aurelius cringed, taken aback. "No, that's not it—I'm not betraying her, I'm trying to protect you!" he said desperately. "There's no way you can win, Rome's men outnumber you over sixty to one!"

"Then I guess we'll each kill sixty of the bastards!" Moritasgos declared triumphantly, and the assembled warriors cheered.

"No!" Aurelius cried, frantically waving his hands. "You can't win, it's not possible! Please, you'll just get everyone killed—"

"It's our sacred duty to defend Gaul, even at the cost of our own lives!" the king thundered. "I would have thought that _you_, of all people, would cheer the loudest for us as we rescue your own mother from Rome's captivity!"

Aurelius blinked, mouth opening slightly as his thoughts ground to a halt. "What?"

"Your mother! Epasias Gaul, our land and our soul, is being held captive in Alesia!" Moritasgos shouted. "And you come here, a Roman _servant_, to ask that we surrender!"

Aurelius heard him, but the words didn't untangle themselves into sense for what felt like hours. "No," he replied distantly, numbly shaking his head. "My mother is dead. I burned her body in a funeral pyre at Alesia, where her sword still marks her grave."

"What?" Moritasgos drew up short, puzzlement vying with anger.

"I performed funeral rites for her, and gave offerings to the gods," Aurelius said, throat tightening as tears threatened to spill. "Mama is dead."

"Are you _certain_ it was your mother?" the king pressed.

"You're being ridiculous!" the leading equites snapped. Aurelius jumped; he had almost forgotten they were there. "As if a son wouldn't recognize his own mother!"

"I certainly wouldn't expect it of _you, _you Helvetii pig-fucker. How would you distinguish your mother from all the other whores!" Moritasgos retorted.

The crowd roared with laughter as the equites leapt from his horse, the praetorian grabbing him by a shoulder swiftly before they could come to blows. Aurelius rushed between the cavarlyman and the king, pleading, "Don't fight, please!"

"Boy, answer me plainly: are you certain it was your mother!" Moritasgos demanded.

"Yes!" Aurelius shouted, tears finally falling, hands balled into fists. "I'm certain it was Mama! Her blonde hair spilled over the logs and burned up in flame; I thrust her sword into the earth so that all would know the tremendous warrior who died there!"

"I think Rome is playing you for a fool!" the king declared hotly. "I think he's converted you for his own nefarious purposes, tricking you into orchestrating our downfall and the enslaving of your mother's people!"

"No! He wouldn't do that!" Aurelius yelled, red in the face. "Why can't you understand! If you don't surrender, Rome will kill everyone!"

"I don't know what evil spell the Romans have laid upon you," Moritasgos said gravely. "But it is evident that you've lost your reason. Rome asked us to surrender," he stated, voice rising. "Here is his answer! Guards, fire!"

"What—!" Aurelius whirled as the archers loosed their arrows; a praetorian fell instantly, his horse rearing in sudden fear, the Helvetii equites tried to shove past Aurelius to reach the king but an arrow buried itself deep into his neck. He gaped in horror as the men were cut down, the remaining equites wheeling around on his horse and thundering out of the closing gate, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Rough hands seized him, dragging him away from the dying escort as he shrieked in panic, thrashing in their grip.

"No, let me go! Let me go, someone help me! Help me! Rome! Rome!" His captor clapped a hand over his mouth and his blue eyes widened, images of the crooked nosed man flashing across his vision, nausea curling in his stomach, his scream muffled against their palm as terror shook him.

The king watched grimly as the young guardian was hauled away. The decision was made, and there would be hell to pay for it.

-o-

Rome slouched against the wall of a guard tower, tucked into the small cubby space as he idly sharpened his sword. He realized it was only just after midday—he hated how short the days were here, it made the sundials practically pointless—and that the likelihood of Aurelius returning so early was slim, but he wanted to know the instant they were spotted. So he staked out a guard tower, providing poor company for the soldier actually on duty. Iulius was drawing up battle plans for the possibility that Tricasses decided that their pride was more valuable than their lives. Rome suspected that he probably should be helping them, but really, their artillery alone would probably do the trick. Just set up the engines the appropriate distance away and pummel the village into dust, with units spread out around the village to catch any escaping Gauls. It would certainly minimize casualties on his side. But until Aurelius got back, they could only sit around and plan.

He shifted slightly, laying the naked blade across his lap. He wanted Aurelius to return. They had gone over everything that morning before the boy left, and he had dutifully recited his lines, his voice unwavering even as his fidgeting steadily increased. Rome had been nervous too, but years of experience allowed him to bury his anxiety under a blaze of confidence, assuring his son with smiles and warm embraces, even as doubt picked at his mind. But Aurelius was there now; it was pointless to worry overmuch.

"The escort!" the watchman announced suddenly.

Rome scrambled to his feet, sheathing his sword as he did. "What, already?" His eyes scannedforest edge for the party, and locked on a single horse approaching at a gallop, the rider slumped in his saddle. His heart plummeted.

"Oh no…" he breathed, before spinning on his heel and clambering down the ladder, spiriting for the nearest gate.

"Open the gate!" he ordered, stepping in front of the horse's path as they came in, taking the reins to keep the nervous animal still as other men rushed over.

The rider slipped off his horse and staggered into the gathering men, hand clutching his shoulder as the others helped support him. Rome saw the blood drenching his front, and his fear mounted.

"What happened, soldier?" he asked urgently. "Where's Aurelius?"

"Rix Moritasgos grew tired of the talk, and gave you his answer," the man forced out with difficulty, expression strained. "The others are likely dead."

"But where's Aurelius?" Rome demanded, grabbing the soldier by the arms with a slight shake.

"The—the Gauls have him. They hauled him off as soon as the archers opened fire," the equites wheezed.

"_Fuck!_" Rome swore, jerking away from the crowd furiously. "_Gods damn them!_" He stifled a scream, gripping fist-fulls of his hair before turning back sharply. "Get that man to the healers and place the legions on alert—we are going to wipe that miserable shit-eating village _off the face of the earth_," he snapped, hand cutting the air violently.

"Yes, sir!" the men chorused, obeying instantly. Rome ran for Iulius's tent.

"Well that plan's worthless!" he announced crossly, storming in unannounced.

Imperator and legatus looked up from the map. "Which plan?" Iulius began, but Rome cut him off.

"Aurelius! The _only surviving_ man from the escort just returned with an arrow through his shoulder, and Aurelius has been _captured!_" he shouted, gesturing wildly.

The commander's face fell. "Ah…"

"Don't give me that! This is _your fault_, Iulius!" Rome stabbed an accusatory finger at the man. "You insisted we send Aurelius!"

"To which you agreed—" Iulius stated calmly.

"_You wouldn't let it alone!_"

The commander frowned, coolly replying, "I didn't realize I had so much control over your actions—"

Rome closed the space between them in two steps and grabbed Iulius by the collar, jerking him forward. The figurines on the map rattled as he jarred the table. "You are my imperator," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I _trust you_ to make intelligent decisions; you _have, influence_, and as your republic I cannot help but _be_ influenced." He released Iulius and stepped back, taking a deep, shaky breath. "You are not sharing the blame for this; it is yours to bear. And you will not attempt to hold me back from _annihilating_ that pathetic excuse for a rebellion."

The legatus Tiberius looked between commander and republic, frozen in a shock of indecision. "Romulus," he said slowly, "Iulius sincerely believed that this was the best—"

"_Don't_," Rome cut in, piercing gaze snapping to the man, a single finger held up in warning. "defend him. I know what he thought. And he was wrong. And he will accept responsibility for this."

Tiberius dropped his gaze sheepishly as Rome turned his attention back to Iulius. The imperator solemnly inclined his head. "You are correct, Romulus. I took a risk and it fell through. You are wholly justified in taking action against the rebels, and I will do whatever I can to facilitate this," he stated formally. "And I am truly sorry. I did not intend to cause you grief."

Rome nodded slightly, a wordless acceptance of the apology. He let out a frustrated sigh. "It's done. Now to fix it." He tilted his chin toward the map. "What have you drawn up?"

Tiberius fixed the position of the figurines as Iulius explained. "According to the estimates from the exploratores, we shouldn't need more than a legion to bring them in line; two if we're being careful. They have two gates; one in the north, one to the south. A legion at each, with the cohorts arranged in a bowl to force them back against the walls, more of a precaution than anything else, to prevent escape. Given their low numbers, it's possible they'll attempt to dig in and wait us out, but even they must see the futility of that. Likely they will face us head on, as their pride would dictate. We'll ring the city as if for a siege, and then artillery will destroy the walls, before we lead a direct assault—"

"We can't bombard the village," Rome said abruptly.

Iulius stopped, frowning. "That would leave open the possibility for a siege, which will undoubtedly be more costly than—"

"I _realize_," Rome interrupted, arms crossed as his eyes traced the outline on the map. "But Aurelius is in that village."

Silence. "Romulus, is it not true that those like you are practically demi-gods?" Iulius asked.

Rome glanced over at him. "Yes…" he answered slowly, trying to see where this was going.

"Is it not also true that, like demi-gods, you are insufferably difficult to harm in any permanent sense?"

Rome paused. Ran over the statements again in his head, before looking back to his imperator with a kind smile. "My dear Iulius. I know that you are a clever man and a devoted father, who loved your daughter with all your heart before she passed." He noted with ugly satisfaction the flinch of pain in the man's eyes and continued. "Which is why I know that you cannot _possibly_ be insinuating that, after your poor insistence on sending my son to demand peace, we bombard Tricasses while my son is trapped there, since no matter how _brutally injured_ he is in the process, it is unlikely that he would die. Giving that you never in her life sought to place your own daughter through unimaginable anguish, I am comforted to know that as a loving father you would never ask such a hideous thing of fellow parent. Though I do thank you for your concern regarding my son's safety."

Iulius opened his mouth, shut it, and nodded stiffly.

Rome's smile widened a fraction in its brittleness, and he cleared his throat. "So!" he stated brightly, dark eyes flicking back to the map. "Two legions; ideally we draw the rebels out and smash them in the fields. If not, we storm the village and finish them that way. I want the soldiers to gather up any children they find still in the village and corral them—that way I don't have to worry about someone accidentally killing Aurelius in their eagerness." A tight grimace, and Rome glanced at Iulius for confirmation.

"Of course," the imperator nodded. "Tenth and Thirteenth legions?"

"The very same. I'll call them up and we'll head out—"

Tiberius straightened. "Now?"

"As soon as possible," Rome confirmed.

"There's not enough daylight left for a battle today," Iulius pointed out.

The republic scowled. "How long do you think it'll take me to slaughter those backwater pissants?"

"It would be near dusk by the time you reached the village—"

"So I should leave me son in enemy hands overnight?!" Rome exploded, flinging his hands into the air. "That is absolutely unacceptable! He is waiting for me to save him and you think I should sit on my hands and do nothing!"

"What I am suggesting," Iulius stated loudly, annoyance creeping into his voice. "is that you attack at dawn, when the rebels will be unprepared—that way you will have a swift, solid victory—"

"And what if they smuggle Aurelius out of the village tonight? How the hell am I supposed to get him back then?" Rome demanded, leaning his weight on the table.

"Your love for the boy is blinding you to common military sense—"

"Damn it, Iulius, I don't care!" Rome slammed his hand down onto the table, upsetting the figurines again. "I want my son back! It is utter bullshit that he got captured to begin with, and I refuse to give them the opportunity to spirit him away and convert him back into a vicious little brat! I will storm those walls _tonight_, even if it means vaulting the wall from a pile of corpses!"

Iulius stared at him, eyes troubled. "There is no reasoning with you when you get like this," he said finally.

"Then stop trying to dissuade me and help me like you said you would!" Rome demanded.

The commander looked at him: hair mussed, face a mottled red, a furious scowl twisting his lips. He sighed. "Go rescue your son."

"_Thank you_, Iulius—Tiberius," he pointed, anger flashing over to an eager bloodlust, "Call up your legion, I'll summon the Tenth." Rome grinned. "Let's go wipe out a village."

-o-

Check back on Monday for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques and praise if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to post a link to this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. See you next chapter!


	11. Doubt and Destruction

Aurelius paced back and forth across the small space in agitation. The tiny room was precisely fourteen steps wide and seven steps deep, and currently contained a bed, a stool, Aurelius, and a warrior positioned by the window, which was the only reason Aureilus wasn't _out_ the window already and well on his way out of the village. The single door leading into the room had been bolted shut from the outside and no amount of desperate rattling had gotten it loose, leaving Aurelius nearly beside himself with worry. He just had to wait for Rome. As soon as the equites got to Rome and told him what happened, the Roman army would march on the tiny village and rescue him. Provided the equites got to Rome, and didn't die en route. Aurelius shook his head; even if the equites didn't make it, they had strict orders to return by nightfall. When that didn't happen, Rome and Iulius would know that something went wrong, and they'd be here at first light. Aurelius just had to hold out until the morning; in his panicky state, oscillating wildly between forced calm and tear-filled terror, it seemed like an impossible task.

Downstairs he knew that Rix Moritasgos was debating with the other elders, trying to determine the best course of action. It pained Aurelius to know that there _was_ no best course of action for them now. They had committed themselves to fight, and they could only lose. Pity warred with fear when he considered their situation—yes they were going to lose, but what would they do in the meantime? Or for that matter—what was Moritasgos going to do with _him_? Would they deem him a traitor and kill him? Aurelius had no idea if that would even work but the possibility that it wouldn't was even more terrifying—that meant the pain wouldn't _stop_. What if they tortured him? Beat him until he told them everything he knew about the Roman camp? Which wasn't much, he realized abruptly. At least, not much that could help them. He knew how the army was structured, knew how many soldiers there were in total and in each unit, but what good would that do Moritasgos? Useful information like how much supplies they have, what tactics they were planning on using, where their next target is—Aurelius didn't know any of that.

_Rome's good at planning_, his mind whispered as he paced. _Maybe, he planned that too._

Did Rome not trust him? Why would he do that? Was he worried that Aurelius would side with the rebels?

_Of course he was worried. They're _your people_, why wouldn't you side with them?_

But he hadn't. And the rebels were going to lose, he had to try and get them to surrender, Rome was going to kill them otherwise—

_But what if they weren't going to lose? What if the exploratores had been wrong, and once you got here you realized that your people could win. What then?_

Aurelius came to a halt, thoughts buzzing as a slick sort of anxiety slipped into his stomach. If the rebels could beat Rome—they _can't_— But if they could…. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and resumed pacing, pushing the nagging thoughts aside.

The room had grown dark in the rapidly fading sunlight; a single candle balanced on the stool was shedding flickering shadows onto the walls when Aurelius heard the bolt scrap in the door. He froze, watching, as the door was opened to admit the king and two more warriors. He backed up slightly, wary.

The king looked him over and gave an approving nod. "Now you seem like Epasias's son."

Aurelius didn't respond, frowning. After confining him to the room, Moritasgos had ordered his warriors to strip him of all his Roman garb and dress him 'properly'—Aurelius had panicked, and at least one of the king's warriors had a black eye to show for it.

Moritasgos cleared his throat. "It has been decided that you are to be transported to Meclodunum, and from there to Lutetia. From there they will get you north to the Bellovaci and Morini, and then across the sea."

Aurelius gaped. "What!" he sputtered in disbelief. "You can't do that!" Inside he felt his horror bloom to new levels—how would Rome ever find him?

"I don't know how the Romans have done this, but clearly they have corrupted you," the king repeated. "We cannot allow you to fall back into their hands, for this would certainly bring disaster."

"Refusing to surrender has brought disaster!" Aurelius retorted hotly. "There's only a few hundred people here, and Rome can bring nearly thirty-two _thousand_ men to bare! What were you thinking?!"

Moritasgos ignored him, continuing, "It is your mother's wish to see you safely away, out of Rome's clutches. As her people, it is our duty to carry out this order and get you swiftly beyond the sea."

"Mama is dead!" Aurelius screamed in frustration, tears burning. "And soon you all will be too! Why can't you understand that?!"

"We must continue the struggle," Moritasgos said firmly. "Epasias implored us to attack Alesia and free her from Rome's captivity; she is our guardian, how could we not—"

"Mama is _dead_; I'm your guardian now—I order you to surrender and spare your own lives!" Aurelius commanded desperately.

"You are her son, and I will consider your words, but until Epasias is dead you are not—"

"_She's dead! How many times do I have to tell you! She—"_ his voice broke, a pained sob robbing him of the rest of his rebuttal. What was _wrong_ with Moritasgos? Mama was dead, he lit the funeral pyre himself and watched her soul fly up to the heavens in the smoke. Soon Moritasgos and the entire village would be killed or captured, with those fortunate enough to have died spared the chains of slavery. Aurelius thought of all the women and children hiding in the woods, waiting for a Gaulish victory that would never come, their king's insistence on battle condemning them to horrendous fates. And there was nothing Aurelius could do. "Why are you doing this?" he asked brokenly, silent tears staining his cheeks.

The king's grim visage softened slightly, marred by pity; wordlessly, he held out a scrap of fabric.

Aurelius took it, asking, "What is it?"

Moritasgos didn't answer, merely nodded towards the rag.

He spotted the writing almost instantly, blue eyes flicking over the smudged ink quickly, his expression bleeding from faint curiosity to bafflement. Finally, he looked back to the king, brow knitted. "What, is this?" he echoed, voice soft.

"That is the message your mother sent us," Moritasgos replied quietly. "Urging us to rise up in arms, to take back Alesia and free her. We received it two weeks ago."

Aurelius's head spun. Two weeks ago? The funeral had been nearly two _months_ ago, how was that possible? Was someone impersonating her? But he recognized her handwriting. "I don't understand," was the only thing he could force past his lips.

"I think Rome has deceived you," Moritasgos stated again. "I believe your mother is still alive."

His heart _ached_—gods, if only that were true. "But I lit her funeral pyre," he recounted, the recollection still painful. "Her body—"

"Are you _certain_ it was your mother?" the king pressed.

"_Yes_, I already told you—"

"Did you see her face?"

"Ye—" Aurelius stopped, suddenly unsure. Did he see her face? He thought he did. Two days ago he would've sworn to Dis Pater that he did. But now… He hesitated. "I— I don't remember."

"Then how do you know it was your mother?"

"I saw her hair—"

"And there is no other woman in the world with hair like your mother's?"

Aurelius fidgeted, twisting the message in his hands. "No—"

"Then how can you be certain it was your mother?"

_I can't_, he realized, asking instead in numb disbelief, "Why would Rome do that?"

Moritasgos only looked at him, and Aurelius understood. To make him vulnerable. To make him think that he had no family. To make it easier for Rome to adopt him, to make him learn Latin and dress like a Roman and try to convince his own people to give up and—_and swear an oath to Dis Pater that he would be loyal to Rome_.

He swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry. "I think I'm going to be sick," he mumbled, sitting down on the floor and curling forward.

Moritasgos stepped towards him—

"Rix!"

He turned as a warrior race over. "Rix, the scouts report a column of Roman soldiers marching on the village!"

Aurelius's stomach flipped in a hideous mix of elation and terror as he scrambled to his feet, adrenaline shooting through him. Moritasgos swore. "What, _now?_ It's nearly dusk! Do they intend to fight us in the dark?" A sharp gasp. "The moon."

The warrior nodded grimly. "Clear skies tonight."

"And the snowfall." The king swore again, feet rooted to the spot as he rapidly debated. "Nothing for it," he said finally, turning back to the warrior. "Have the men ready for battle and position themselves in the field, both entrances, I don't want to risk the Romans sneaking around and flanking us. We'll have the village to fall back on if need be—"

"You don't think the Romans won't level it to start with?" the warrior cut him off.

Moritasgos glanced at Aurelius, silent for a moment. "I don't know." He considered the boy a moment longer before snapping at the warrior, "Go!"

As he ran off, the king rounded on Aurelius, taking him by the arm. "Come on," he urged, half-guiding, half-dragging him along.

"Where are we going?" Aurelius shouted, his mother's scrap of message still clutched in his hand. Outside was barely controlled chaos as men strapped on armour and swords and saddled their horses, calling to each other over the clamour.

"_You_ are going to Meclodunum!" Moritasgos declared, weaving through the crowd. Aurelius struggled to keep up, his short strides not even remotely enough to prevent getting pulled along. The king barked out orders as they went, and soon they were by the north gate, servants throwing a heavy wool cloak over his shoulders as others crammed food into the saddlebags of a magnificent chestnut geldling.

"But—but I don't want to go to Meclodunum!" Aurelius yelled over the noise as a servant hastily pinned the cloak in place.

Moritasgos rounded on him. "You'd rather be a Roman slave then?" he demanded. "To the very man who's responsible for the destruction and enslavement of the Gaulish people? To the man who wrenched you from your mother and then _lied_ that she was dead?"

Aurelius flinched back a step. "I—"

Moritasgos gave an exasperated scowl and hauled him up onto the saddle. "This is Calepios," he said, handing Aurelius the reins. "He's a strong, fast horse; the finest I've ever had."

Aurelius blinked down at him. "Why give him to me?"

"I won't have any use for him soon," Moritasgos answered bluntly. Before the boy had a chance to fully wince at that statement, the king continued. "This is Brennos." He gestured to an approaching warrior with raven-black hair, who gave a short salute. "He'll get you to Meclodunum, and has orders to tie you down if you try to run off."

Aurelius frowned at the king as Brennos pulled himself up into the saddle.

The king shrugged. "I'm just making sure that your lingering confusion doesn't cause any problems." He double-checked the saddlebags for provisions before stepping back and nodding. "May Epona watch over you, and may you be reunited with your mother," he intoned.

Aurelius held up a hand in a silently goodbye, a part of his head reflecting on what those words meant if Gaul really was dead. Brennos saluted again, and wheeled them around out the north gate; Aurelius twisted around in the saddle to peer around the rider at the village, knowing instinctively that it wouldn't exist in a few short hours. He shifted forward again, glancing at the cloth message in his hand for a long minute, before stuffing it deep into a pocket.

They angled north-west, with only the sounds of snow crunched under hoof and the horse's plumbing white breath to accompany them. Brennos made no attempt at conversation, leaving Aurelius to his turbulent thoughts. He didn't know if he wanted to go to Meclodunum, and eventually across the sea. That's what Mama wanted, but that was back when Mama was going to come back and get him once Rome was defeated. Rome clearly _wasn't_ going to be defeated, and Aurelius didn't even know now if his mother was alive. He wondered if Mama had known she was going to lose, when she decided to send him across the sea to Britannia. He wondered if she was still alive, if Rome had lied, or if Moritasgos had said those things to confound him enough so that the king could get him away from Rome. He got the uncomfortable sense that everyone wanted something from him; he just didn't know what that something was. He remembered the funeral, the pyre blazing hot as he tossed in offerings. The image of her blond hair spilling over the logs was burned into his mind, but he couldn't recall if he had seen her face or not. He could picture it—eyes closed, worries smoothed away as if in sleep—but it was fuzzy, as if from a dream, not like the sharp, crisp image of her hair. He thought about all of it, and for once, wasn't sure where he was supposed to be.

Brennos swore softly under his breath and veered further west, then slowed, drawing the horse to a pause as he scanned the woods.

"What's wrong?" Aurelius whispered, searching through the trees as well.

The warrior drew the horse back, retracing their path for a short way. "They're encircling the village. I don't know where there's a point we can slip through…"

"Trying to break through the Roman line is suicide." An uncomfortable sense of familiarity was settling over Aurelius like a heavy snow, seeping into the moments between thoughts to instill a touch of nauseating fear. They were surrounded, and thanks to the king, the Roman soldiers might think he was an enemy, and last time he got caught in the woods— "Please let me go," he pleaded, twisting to look into Brennos's concerned face. "Please, trying to get me out will only get you killed—"

"I resigned myself to death when I swore to rebel," Brennos replied firmly.

"No, you don't understand, you have to let me go; the Romans will find me—" A flash of sickening memory and fear stuttered his speech_— _"R- Rome will find me; he'll protect me and—"

"No; I am getting you to Meclodunum even if it costs me my life—"

"But it will—!"

The warrior swore again and wheeled the horse around sharply, kicking them into a gallop. Aurelius's heart leapt to his throat and he looked behind them—there in the distance among the trees was an advancing Roman column. A surge of hope shot through him.

"Let me go!" he demanded.

"No!"

"If we run they'll think we're the enemy—"

"We _are_ the enemy!" Brennos shouted over the thundering hooves.

"No! I— I wanna go back to Rome, let me go!" He grabbed for the reins, hauling back on them. Calepios jerked to a stop and Brennos wrenched the reins loose, trying to urge the horse forward, but Aurelius interfered again, tugging on Calepios's mane and confusing the poor steed until he snorted and stomped. Brennos swore and clipped Aurelius in the head—the boy released the reins and dove for the ground, scrambling to his feet and sprinting towards the advancing Romans.

He heard another swear, and a quick glance told Aurelius that the warrior was bringing the horse about to pursue; a burst of speed carried him further, gaze focused on the Romans—he'd never reach them before Brennos caught up. But still he ran, and the warrior didn't grab him, so Aurelius risked another glance and saw the horse riding off riderless, and an unmoving figure in the snow, an arrow marking the place like a grave. Aurelius skidded to a halt, gaze snapping back to the steadily marching Romans, row upon row of infantry stretched out on either side, swords at the ready, and there he was directly in their path, no weapon, no armour, no chance. But where was Rome? Indecision froze him, and he quivered their like a plucked string.

"There's a boy!" one of the soldiers pointed him out suddenly, breaking off from the line to run at him. His terror broke like a wave as he turned heel and ran—what if the soldiers didn't know who he was? What if they didn't bring him to Rome? What if— what if—

When the soldier caught him by the arm he howled, struggling furiously to free himself as nausea gagged him, squeezing the air out of his throat as he fought. The Roman dropped his sword to grip him better, hauling him off the ground. His short legs kicked the air helplessly, hands clawing at the soldier's hold as he was carried off behind the advancing line, screaming and begging for Rome.

-o-

The battle, Rome reflected with cruel satisfaction, was more of a slaughter than anything else.

Granted, the Gauls were fierce fighters and carelessness had costs many a Roman legionary, but here they simply didn't have the numbers. The moon shed a ghostly glow over the carnage, the churned up snow dark as shadows where ever a man had met his fate. Not a single soul was left from the village, leaving no risk for a counter-attack, and as Rome picked his way over the corpse-strewn field he caught himself almost wishing it had been more of a challenge. But his true goal had not yet been accomplished.

He saddled his horse and rode out past the edges of the battle, towards the place he had instructed his men to set up a hastily-built corral. They were under strict orders to capture, alive with as little harm done as possible, every boy they encountered in or around the village and to bring them back there. It was the surest way he could think of to guarantee that Aurelius was recovered without harm, and he could only hope that it worked as well as he prayed.

He knew right away as he rode up to the guards that some of the boys captured could not be his Aurelius—too tall, too young, not the right hair. No, had they not found him? Was he too late? The prospect of tearing apart the entire Gallic territory to find Aurelius was overwhelming, and gods forbid they transported him _out_ of Gaul. His alarm as the possibility of never seeing his son again sharpened a little more into reality, his eyes scanning the nervous, shifting crowd. But there! A small form huddled on the ground towards the back of the group, gold hair glinted in the moonlight.

"Aurelius!" He leapt from his horse and vaulted over the low fence—the other children scattered, but the fright on their faces barely registered as Aurelius's head snapped up, hope plastering itself across his smile. He didn't have time to clamber to his feet before Rome swept him up into his arms, crushing him in a tight embrace.

"Aurelius, thank the gods you're safe!" he laughed, relief sweeping away the rush of battle as he felt tiny arms encircling him in return. For a moment all he did was hold him, Aurelius's head tucked under his chin, before pulling back enough to get a better look at him. "Your lip is split," he noted, gently running a thumb over the cut. For his men's sake, it better be the fault of the Gauls.

Aurelius hugged himself against Rome's chest, heedless of the blood splatters crusted over the armour. "I was scared—I'm sorry, Papa, I didn't mean to fight—" He wasn't quite trembling but close.

"Shhh, shhh," Rome soothed. "You're okay, son. I've got you." He petted the boy's soft hair as his mind crooned victory. _Papa_. Aurelius called him Papa. The mother was dead; long love the father.

Movement out of the corner of his eye; one of the Gallic boys cautiously edging closer. He almost snorted. What did he intend to do? Tackle him and hope to land a punch or two before Rome broke his arm? He carried Aurelius out of the corral, heading to his horse before the brats could get any stupid ideas. Last thing he needed was some pipsqueak gnawing at his ankles. And Aurelius was obviously shaken by the whole ordeal. The faster they got back to the safety and familiarity of camp, the better.

"You know what to do," he nodded to the guard as he set Aurelius in the saddle, swinging himself up after. He turned in time to spare Aurelius the sight of the guard loosing their swords and kicked the beast into a gallop. They hadn't placed much distance between them when the first scream rang out. Aurelius jumped, panicked, but Rome wrapped a firm arm across his chest and held him in place as they rode resolutely away, ignoring his frantic cries.

"Papa? Papa, what was that? The others, what—? Papa, what are they doing? They're killing them, I can hear it, Papa make them stop! Make them stop! _Papa!_"

Rome only continued to shhh him, eyes fixed on the ruined village as they left the darkening snow behind them.

-o-

Last chapter I received a reader question from theangelkneesocks, who asks: "Is Aurelius ever going to find out the truth about his mom?"

In a very technically sense, he's already been told the truth- Rix Moritasgos told him point-blank that Gaul is still alive, and now Aurelius has seen the messages Gaul was sending out. Whether he'll come to the conclusion that she's alive, or if he'll ever see him again, well, you'll just have to keep reading to find out! But I will say this: we have not seen the last of Gaul.

Thank you theangelkneesocks for your question!

Due to the approaching holidays and two fanfiction holiday exchanges in which I'm participating, the next update will be New Year's Eve. In the mean time, feel free to leave a comment, give me feedback, or ask a question-you may see it answered in the next chapter footnotes! And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to post a link to this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. A very merry Winter to you all, and I'll see you next chapter!


	12. Forgery and Training

Aurelius wept softly for almost the entirety of the ride back to camp, tear-stained cheeks glinting in the moonlight. They had briefly stopped at the ruined village to issue a flurry of orders; Aurelius had taken in the corpse-strewn fields, the totality of the carnage, the soldiers rifling through the village for valuables to load up on carts, and burst into frightened, horrified sobs. Rome could've kicked himself for being so stupid as to let Aurelius see any of that. They left quickly; Rome held Aurelius close in the saddle for what comfort it would offer him, and thought unbidden about Troy, the slaughter he had witnessed as a child. At least the deed was done when Aurelius glimpsed it—so far as Rome knew, Aurelius had never fled a massacre.

By the time they reached camp, Aurelius had quieted. Rome stripped out of his armour, handing it over to the servants to polish off the dried blood as he pulled on a toga, and peeled Aurelius out of the Gallic clothes, wrinkling his nose at the scent. Cassius quickly drew up a bath, and Rome took it upon himself to bath Aurelius, toga pinned back to keep out of the water. He saw the haunted look drift around those blue eyes as Aurelius huddled silently in the tub, and Rome grew steadily more furious as the minutes ticked by. He couldn't _believe_ that he let Iulius talk him into letting Aurelius go—he _knew_ it was a disaster waiting to happen. Now Aurelius was in this state, gods only knew what those barbarians had said to him. His own curiosity clawed at him, demanding to know what had passed between his son and the Gallics, but he had the sense to give it time, or wait for Aurelius to speak of it himself. He knew Iulius would be eager to get Aurelius alone, to press him for any details he might recall that could prove useful in putting down the other rebellions, but Iulius would damn well wait. Aurelius needed a chance to breath. As he scrubbed off the dirt from Aurelius's pale skin, Rome envisioned sloughing off the pain and fear from the ordeal, rinsing Aurelius clean of any lingering Gallic filth.

He plucked Aurelius out of the now murky water and wrapped him in a towel as Cassius set a fresh tunic nearby. "Burn those," he instructed, nodding to the Gallic clothes. Cassius bowed and scooped them up, turning to leave—

"Wait, no." Aurelius shifted under Rome's hands, the first words he'd spoken since he'd ceased crying.

Rome draped the towel over the boy's blond hair and fluffed it dry, saying loudly, "No, Aurelius; you are to wear Roman garb."

"Yes, I know—" Aurelius pushed the towel aside, peeking out from under it. "I just- in the pockets, there's—"

Cassius reached into the pockets until he found what Aurelius was looking for: a scrap of fabric marked with ink. Aurelius accepted it quickly, turning it over with a sense of relief.

"What's that?"

Aurelius looked up at the older nation, completely missing the careful politeness, the feigned curiosity. He dropped his gaze quickly, suddenly unsure if he should say. "Oh, um—it's, it's… Mama's," he finished lamely, unable to scrounge up an alternative in time.

Rome set the towel aside. "Gaul's?" he asked, pulling a Roman tunic over Aurelius's head. Aurelius poked his head and hands through—Rome almost snatched the offending scrap of message from the boy's hand right then, but restrained himself. "What is it?"

Aurelius twisted the fabric in his hands, not looking at Rome. "It's…" All the questions, all the doubts he had when talking with the king came filtering back. He bit his lip. "It's a message, from Mama. Calling her people to rebel, and take back Alesia." He paused, trying to quell the anxiety in his stomach, then pressed on resolutely. "The king got it two weeks ago."

A silence hung between like a knife. Then Rome sighed sadly and pulled the fledgling nation into a tight hug. "Oh Aurelius. I am so sorry…"

Aurelius's heart surged in he wasn't sure what, his body coiled taunt—oh gods, the king was right. Rome _had_ lied, Mama was—

"It's disgusting that someone would dare impersonate your mother."

Aurelius pulled back slightly; Rome didn't let go. "What?"

The republic's expression slid towards pity. "You didn't think it was actually something she wrote, did you? She died months ago."

"But—" That's what Aurelius had thought at first, an impersonator. "I recognize her handwriting…"

"May I see it?"

He hesitated for a heartbeat too long, then handed Rome the fragment. He took it and stood—for a single moment Aurelius thought he was going to throw it into the fire, destroying the last remaining connection to his mother, but instead Rome went to his desk. He pushed letters and maps aside, clearing a space for a clean sheet as he scrutinized the smudged letters. Then he smoothed the message out flat on the desk and readied a reed stylus, writing out something slowly and carefully on a scrap of parchment, pausing now and then to consult the message. Aurelius came over, trying to peer around Rome's hands, but he couldn't make out the writing.

After a few short minutes, Rome straightened. "Here." He stepped aside to let Aurelius read the parchment.

'—impale them upon your blades, drive them out of our blesséd lands! Come to me, my peerless warriors, deliver me from the hands of the cruel enemy that we might reclaim all they have taken from us. Do not rest—'

He reread it twice, brow furrowed at his eyes flicked from parchment to fabric and back again.

Rome tapped the parchment. "Is this Gaul's handwriting?"

"You wrote it," Aurelius said.

"Yes. And if you hadn't seen me write it?"

Aurelius shifted his weight from right to left. "It looks like Mama's," he admitted, spirits sinking down to somewhere around his toes. Rome could do this; who knew how many others could? And now Rome knew that Aurelius had doubted him, thought he was lying and trying to take advantage of him even after Rome went out of his way to take care of Aurelius in Mama's stead, took him in as a son so he wouldn't be an orphan—

_But he killed Mama! The only reason we would've been an orphan is because of him!_

Warriors die in battle; that's what happened. Death in battle was a good death, an honourable death. Rome survived victorious—really, he should've killed Aurelius too, to guarantee his victory, a king wiping out his enemy's bloodline to ensure there would be no future sons to challenge him for the throne. But Rome hadn't. He had taken him in and given him a new life. And Aurelius accused him of being dishonourable, of lying about Mama's death, of faking a funeral he was under no obligation to give. Suddenly Aurelius was painfully aware of Rome standing silently next to him, and felt his own guilt plunge over him like a wave.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, horrified with himself.

Rome crouched down and put his hands squarely on Aurelius's shoulders. "Aurelius, I- Aurelius, look at me, come on." He waited until the boy had dragged his gaze up from the floor, then continued solemnly. "I know how hard it is to lose a parent; it's only natural to cling to any hint that maybe, just maybe, they're still alive somewhere, and waiting. But you have to understand that she is dead." He paused. "There are people in this world who would use your love for her against you. The Gallic king would have given anything to drive us apart, to convince you to join him—he even went so far as to defile her memory with this painful trick. Do you mother honour by living your life well, and refusing to fall for such charlatans."

Aurelius nodded, tears welling up in his watery blue eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Rome hushed him. "I'm not angry at you. I just want you to know that I'm looking out for you. You're my son now; I'll take care of you. Okay?"

Another nod, focus once more locked on the ground. Rome hooked a finger lightly under the boy's chin and tilted his face up. "Hey. Everything will be okay." He smiled gently, and a faint smile flickered on Aurelius's lips. Rome hugged him tight, lifting him into the air. "The world is difficult," he sighed as the weight of his stolen son's head came to rest on the republic's shoulder. "Come, let's get rid of this scrap of lies."

Aurelius nodded, drying his tears as Rome snagged the two messages off the desk and went to the brazier, nudging open the door with his boot. Rome lowered him to the ground, squatting next to him, and handed over the messages. Aurelius took them, looking over the writing for a few moments—he felt his heart harden in anger, and swiftly threw in the forgeries. He saw the flames engulf the parchment instantly, the fabric smoldering slowly, and thought of how Moritasgos had almost fooled him, trying to lure him to break the oath he swore. But fire was cleansing, and Aurelius imagined it was burning away his doubt, leaving him honest and grateful and loyal. The flames were in his heart too, unhurriedly eating away that sharp hope for his mother, that maybe…

Rome watched the messages burn with a sense of relief. _That_, was entirely too close.

-o-

It went without question that Aurelius remained in camp through the successive battles. The camp moved frequently, jumping from one potential rebellion to another, never staying more than three days. Word of Tricasses traveled quickly, borne by the few souls fortunate enough to have escaped the slaughter. News of the terrible vengeance that fell upon them was enough that some rebellious villages surrendered without a fight, to Aurelius's great relief. The first two times Rome marched out, Aurelius waited anxiously, unable to sit still through lessons, running to the gates whenever word came that a messenger had returned. He feared for his people, that they had decided to fight and die in vain; he foolishly worried about Rome—what if he was hurt? What if he was _killed_? Cassius rapidly came to the conclusion that lessons were impossible, and shifted to walking with Aurelius around the camp, listening to the boy's constant nervous chatter as he struggled to distract himself from the thought of bloodshed a scant few _milles_ away. They wandered among the tent rows, visited the horses, struggled to keep out of the way as the soldiers trained.

They passed by the open space between the fortifications and the first line of tents, pausing to watch a legion drill. Aurelius was silent a long moment, blue eyes taking in everything: the orderly lines of soldiers; the precise, measured marching; the shouted orders, incomprehensible from where he stood but immediately visible in the effects they had on the men, triggering them to turn this way or that, to spread out, to halt, to collapse back into a tight defensible block instead of the flexible, reactionary combat line.

"Could I train?" he asked suddenly.

Cassius looked down to him. "Could you train?" he repeated, tone baffled.

"Yeah. With the men."

The servant responded slowly. "I don't know… Why?"

Aurelius didn't look away from the military drills. "I want to learn how to fight."

Cassius made a sound of understanding; the army always looked attractive and glamourous to growing boys. "You can ask Rome when he returns."

Aurelius nodded, and continued to watch the legion practice.

When Rome returned that night—the village hadn't surrendered, and Aurelius almost cried to see the small crowd of captured villagers being herded into the slave pens—Aurelius waited until they were sharing dinner before springing the question. Rome agreed instantly, and excitedly promised Aurelius his own armour and sword, just like a proper soldier. And so Aurelius began to train with the Tenth Legion under the watchful eye of its legatus, burying his anxiety under _exhausting_ physical strain.

At Rome's request, Aurelius trained only with the Tenth Legion, those most loyal to Iulius. Iulius and Rome had been… very tensely polite to each other since Tricasses, and Aurelius wondered if being placed in the Tenth Legion reflected an agreement of some sort between imperator and republic. The all-encompassing reach of politics was beginning to dawn on him, with the effect of making him question everything. But the sheer physicality of training kept his thoughts at bay, as he learned to march and drill, block and thrust and charge alongside the most skilled infantry men in the whole Roman Republic. He made up for his short stature and child's strength with dedication and perseverance, putting his inhuman endurance to work as they trained in the snow and slush of winter. The look of pure pride on Rome's face when he observed the young territory only served to further encourage him, and the late afternoons when Rome would spar with him, carefully pushing Aurelius to his limits without actually breaking bone or spilling blood, quickly became one of his favourite things. Each night he collapsed aching into bed, passing out tucked up in Rome's perpetual warmth. He was too tired to have nightmares about the villagers.

Two weeks into Aurelius's new regime, Rome went out to the training grounds, quickly scanning the assembled men for the child among their ranks. Said child did not reveal himself. Frowning, Rome went over to the legatus, tapping his shoulder.

"Where's Aurelius?" he asked, returning the automatic salute.

"I don't know, praepositus," the man replied with a shrug. "I have not seen him all day."

Rome frowned. Cassius had said that Aurelius had gone off to the Tenth. "Okay, thanks," he nodded, turning away. The sun was setting through the bare trees of the surrounding forest, and they had plans to break camp in the morning. Now was not the time to lose him.

_If I were a child-republic, where would I be?_

Probably sitting with the commanders, listening to talk of politics and war. But the discussions of war would be focused on the last two rebellions, one of which would be taken out tomorrow, and Rome didn't see the conversation as one through which Aurelius would care to sit. Alright, if not there, nor with the soldiers… The horses? But the coral was also absent of children… His frown deepened as he looked over the horses. A sliver of grey smoke trailed up to the sky, and Rome did a double-take. The smoke was coming from _outside_ the camp.

He swore under his breath. He didn't have time for this. But if it was an ambush in the making… Scowling, Rome called for his horse and rode back to the Tenth.

"Legatus, I'm borrowing a third contubernia," he announced. A look on confusion passed over the officer's face, but he ordered those men out. Once they had assembled, Rome briefed them before leading them out of the camp, heading towards the spiral of smoke. Really, he should just dispatch a contingent of exploratores to deal with this, on the off-chance he was about to waltz into an incredibly out-numbered ambush, but the chances were small that they couldn't simply take whatever they were about to— Light up ahead, practically a beacon in the growing dusk. It couldn't be an ambush, the Gallics weren't that stupid— And then he caught sight of the bonfire, and the small silhouette in front of it, and felt a tiny jolt of fear as he kicked his horse into a canter.

Aurelius didn't hear the approaching horse until Rome swung off it, hand falling on Aurelius's shoulder to jerk him back roughly, cutting short the unnerving Gallic chant.

"What are you doing!"

The anger in Rome's voice sent a cringe through the boy. "Offerings, for Sulis—" he stuttered, and Rome's expression darkened instantly.

"To what purpose?" he growled.

Aurelius tried to pull away, but Rome's grip tightened. "For Yule—"

Rome glanced back at his men; only years of experience allowed him to pick out the aura of uncertainty that marred their stance. "The men think you're cursing," he said darkly.

Blue eyes widened in shock. "What? No, it's just the solstice; the sun's returning—"

"The men don't know that," the republic cut him off. "All they see is a little Gallic boy acting like a _druid_." His lip curled at the word. "And the druids have brought nothing but trouble."

"I'm not cursing, honest," Aurelius repeated, shoulder aching where Rome held him.

Rome hummed and dragged Aurelius back a few steps. "Put this fire out," he ordered the men.

Aurelius almost succeeded in twisting away. "But I haven't finished—"

Rome jerked him back, both hands on his shoulders now like weights as he towered over the boy. "No son of mine is going to act like a little uncivilized heathen," he stated firmly. "You'll celebrate the solstice at Saturnalia with the rest of us, like a proper Roman. No more of this," he gestured back at the fire, hissing and dying as the men heaped snow on it. "Do you understand?"

Aurelius stare up at him, a glimmer of fear in his heart. Rome was—this was scary. "Yes," he nodded. "I'm sorry."

A strained smile stretched Rome's lips; it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Don't let me catch you doing this again—I may not be as sympathetic in the future."

The implications sent a small chill down Aurelius's spine, and he nodded again. Rome hooked him under the arms and set him in the saddle, swinging himself up after. "Let's get back to camp."

It was a brief ride, but during that time a hundred questions sprang to life in Aurelius's mind. What was he going to do if he couldn't give offerings? The gods were going to be insulted; they might send misfortune or illness. How to prevent that? What was Saturnalia? What did they do? More importantly, who _were_ Rome's gods? Did they get along with his people's? Why should he celebrate Saturnalia like a proper Roman, he _wasn't_ Roman. His thoughts stilled. He wasn't Roman… But suddenly, he wasn't sure Rome knew that.

It gnawed at him until they reached their tent; Aurelius missed the dark look that passed from Rome to Cassius as the latter helped the other servants set out dinner. As Rome sat down opposite him, reaching for his goblet, Aurelius asked softly, "Rome?"

"Mm?" he hummed shortly, taking a long drink.

A wave of warning passed over Aurelius; he mentally shook it off. "Am I Roman?"

The republic didn't answer, abruptly draining the rest of his goblet in one go, wordlessly motioning for a servant to refill it. "No, Aurelius," he answered finally. He took another sip. "Not yet, at least."

Aurelius stared, eyes searching Rome's face for he didn't know what, before he dropped his gaze to his plate, picking at his dinner in silence.

-o-

A couple of reader questions this time, with another from theangelkneesocks: Why were the children killed instead of sold into slavery?

Frankly, Rome was pissed. The Gallic king kidnapped Aurelius; the whole village was guilty by association. While normally he recognizes slavery to be a worse fate than death (not to mention profitable- Iulius Caesar essentially used the conquest of Gaul to pay off his debts), Rome just couldn't be bothered this time. That, and the threat of killing _literally everyone_ he gets his hands on does terrible things to the moral of the surrounding rebellions. Nothing like justifying the cold-blooded murder of children to assuage any moral concerns one might have had.

Next question was from Saemoon (I have readers in France for a fic about their nation, yay!): Why Aurèle is so nice and sweet with Rome? And so fast?

I was _hoping_ someone would ask this, because psychology and mind fuckery. Also, evidence that Rome is a manipulative bastard. So! Brief recap: Maponos is sent away from his mother, the last time he sees her; he's captured and assaulted by Roman soldiers, brought to the Roman camp. Rome finds him, Maponos pisses off Rome, Rome orders him to be dropped in that pit. Maponos _does not_ understand Latin; all he knows is that Roman soldiers haul him off and drop him down that hell hole. He stays in what is essentially solitary confinement for five days, by the end of which he hasn't eaten or drank anything in seven days- most people are certifiably crazy at this point. Rome appears and _rescues_ him from that hell hole, bathes him, feeds him, keeps him safe. Over two months pass, Rome is nothing but a loving father-figure to a child who just lost his mother, had his entire world shattered, got mentally fucked up by solitary confinement and then rescued by a protective strong adult who lavishes him with attention and good amounts of praise. He undergoes a minor ritual in which he's formally adopted and given a new name; he rapidly picks up Latin. Two months doesn't seem long, but think: that's almost an entire semester of school. That's nearly the whole of summer vacation. The reason Aurelius is so nice and sweet with Rome is because it was a set up. Rome planned it. Rome took a child trapped in a traumatic experience, shattered his head further, then stepped in and 'saved' him. True, Aurelius heard terrible things about Rome but Rome's never acted that way towards _him_. Actions speak louder than words. Aurelius was scared and alone, and terrified of being alone. And Rome made _certain_ he was there for the boy. (Also, anthropologists have noted that, time and time again, in cultures where wives are brought in from differing cultures, different tribes, the new wives _rapidly_ assimilate into the new culture as a way of protecting themselves, by quickly shedding the label of 'outsider'-they are often the most staunch followers of tradition.)

Livia Drusilla had a couple of questions, but for the sake of brevity, I'll just answer this one: Is Rome going to find the men who hurt Aurelius in chapter two?

I originally planned for Rome to figure out who those men were, but then realized I didn't know what he'd do from there. The only reason he'd have an issue with what happened is because now he counts Aurelius like a son. Anyone else? Rome doesn't _care_. That sort of thing is what happens in war; it's not like he gave orders forbidding it. Also, having those men get in trouble for what they did would be inaccurate, depressingly. 97% of all rapists never spend a single day in jail, and that's_now and days_. So no, those men are not going to be caught, or punished. Tt remains unresolved, a nightmare Aurelius carries for the rest of his life, and only he suffers a burden from it, as is the case with most rape in our times. I recognize that that sucks, and it's unfair, and that's exactly my reason for leaving it that way.

On a less depressing note, CaledoniaRoma asks I wonder how old is Aurelius in nation years is he older than he looks?

In a word, yes. He's been alive longer than his appearance suggests, but as for how many years he's been alive? No idea. It's pure speculation to try and figure out when France as a Hetalia nation came into being, though if I had to guess I'd say probably only a few decades prior to the start of this fic.

That's it for questions this time; thank you to all who submitted them! Check back on Monday for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques and praise if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to post a link to this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season, and I wish you the best of life, prosperity, and happiness in the new year. See you next chapter!


	13. Sons and War

The next morning at breakfast it was as if the day before had never happened. Rome questioned Aurelius on military tactics over eggs and bread, about the purpose of various formations and in which situations they worked best. Aurelius answered correctly and concisely, and thought about Rome's words. 'You're not Roman, not yet'. Not yet. But that was what Rome wanted, and he was already getting it. Aurelius spoke Latin—not perfectly, _not yet_, but improving every day; he wore Roman clothes, ate Roman food, and drilled with the Roman army. The switch was proving almost painless, and that's what unnerved Aurelius the most. It was so easy to learn what Rome wanted, to alter his speech here and there to include Latin phrases that made no sense in Gaulish, to wear a Roman tunic instead of a Gaulish one, to eat the food served to him and know that no self-respecting Gaul would eat field mice. The ease of the transition made him wonder just what made someone Roman, or Gaulish for that matter. Was he really becoming Roman? Or was he just pretending?

"Praepositus." A messenger announced himself by the door flap, saluting.

Rome returned it. "Yes?"

"Marcus Antonius and Quintus Cassius Longinus have arrived from Rome," the messenger said.

"Really? So soon back—that's excellent news, thank you. Tell them I shall be by shortly once I've finished my meal—"

"With all respect," the servant interrupted. "The imperator wishes you join them now. The senators are in a bad way."

Rome's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

The servant bowed. "I apologize; I know not the details. But it appears that they have been expelled from the Senate—"

"What!" Rome leapt to his feet and was almost out the door when he commanded over his shoulder, "Aurelius, come—" Aurelius grabbed his portion of bread and ran after him.

He heard low, dark murmurs seeping through the camp as they made their way to Iulius's tent; there was an undeniable tension in the air. Aurelius ducked in after Rome, caught sight of Iulius standing by his maps, a grave expression on his face, Marcus next to him with a black eye, and a man Aurelius didn't recognize, a jagged cut across his forehead, seated on the sofa, and next to him was—

"Papa!"

The small figure launched itself off the sofa and collided with Rome's legs with such force that Rome wobbled. He quickly dropped to a crouch, surprise and joy splitting his face in a grin.

"Antonius! Oh, son, I've missed you!" he enveloped the smaller boy in a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in a mop of nut-brown hair.

"Me too, Papa—You were gone forever! You said only a few months!"

Aurelius stood rooted to the spot, uncomprehending as Rome and the other boy exchanged excited greetings. Son? Rome had another son? A hint of betrayal tugged at him, but that was silly, it's not like Rome was only allowed to have one son.

"Aurelius!" Rome half turned back to him, grinning as he beckoned him over. "Come here; this is your brother, Antonius Romanus Iberius, guardian of Hispania." The republic looped an arm around Aurelius's waist and pulled him closer, holding him opposite the new boy. "Antonius, this is Aurelius Romanus Gallicus, guardian of the Gallic people."

Aurelius nodded slightly, his mind running instant comparisons. Antonius was younger than him, and a little shorter, he noted with a touch of satisfaction, with bright emerald eyes set into a round tan face. The smile on his lips was warm and full, and absolutely open.

"Please to meet you!" Antonius threw his arms around Aurelius and kissed his cheek, oblivious to the way the blond stiffened, the awkwardness with which he returned the embrace. "We're going to be best friends!" he declared, pulling back to clasp Aurelius's forearms. "And we'll go on adventures and fight Persians and win lots of gold and women!"

Rome laughed as confusion flickered over Aurelius's face—what's a Persian? Iulius cleared his throat and the republic inwardly sighed. "Alright; you two run off—Aurelius, show Antonius where our tent is please? I'll be back soon."

Aurelius nodded again, still quiet. Antonius beamed. "Thank you, Papa, for getting me a brother!"

Rome snorted; behind him, Iulius buried his face in his hand to hide a groan. "I didn't _get_ you a brother, Antonius. You _have_ a brother. I _got_ a son," he corrected, standing. "Now go on, shoo," he gestured towards the tent flap.

"Okay, Papa!" Antonius grabbed Aurelius's hand and dragged him out of the tent before the other child-nation could protest.

Rome watched them go with a smile, his heart full to bursting as he turned back to his men. He caught Iulius's eye, and instantly received a look that plainly read: you are an idiot, and when there aren't so many people around I will explain exactly why you are an idiot, because you have clearly missed it. Rome flashed him a rueful, disarming grin. "Sorry about that," he said, sounding completely insincere. "So! What awful thing's happened that's going to ruin my mood for the day?" For a moment no one answered, and his cocky grin faded as he looked among the men. "Io, what the hell happened to you two?" he asked, frowning at Marcus's black eye and split lip, the gash on Quintus's brow.

"We were expelled from the Senate. Forcibly," Quintus replied.

"The _Senate_ did this to you?" Rome asked in disbelief, fury sputtering to life. "You're a _tribune of the people, _you're untouchable—"

"Why don't we sit?" Iulius suggested, taking an empty seat on one of the sofas. Rome broke off, nodding, and sat by Qunitus, Marcus by Iulius. When everyone was settled, the imperator explained. "The Senate tried to pass a measure that simultaneously forbid me from running again for consul _in absentia_ while demanding I disband my legions, or else be declared an enemy of the people."

Rome stared. "You're joking. So then—?"

"Quintus and I vetoed it," Marcus continued. "And they threw us out. The results of which you can still see. We came directly here after that."

"I can't believe it—don't they _realize_ what they've done?" the republic said, exasperated. "Working in the interests of the people doesn't usually entail triggering a _civil war_—"

Quintus swivelled to look at him in alarm. "A civil war, what—"

"Please, Quintus, consider it," Rome cut him off impatiently. "This entire situation is a result of Pompey's unabashed desire to drive Iulius to ruin."

"I agree," Marcus said strongly. "Pompey has made his motives clear for months; now he has gone too far. An enemy of the people? Iulius? The hero of the Gallic Wars, made to stand trial for trumped up charges of war crimes? This insult cannot be tolerated!"

"Civil war is no easy thing—" Quintus tried to warn, only for Marcus to interrupt, "There isn't another course of action! All peaceful avenues have proved impassable; Pompey had made sure of it," he added darkly. "And if this is what that bastard will do to Iulius's _supporters_—" he gestured to his own injuries. "—I shudder to think what he would do to Iulius himself!"

"But _civil war_—?"

"Is it a civil war?" Rome said loudly. All eyes turned to him; he was hunched over slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze to the ground as he considered his words. "A civil war is ultimate result of the accumulation of ills that occurs when a people are divided and unable to reconcile themselves. But…" His deep mahogany eyes flicked up to Iulius's grey ones and held them. "The people are _not_ divided. They stand with Gaius Iulius Caesar."

A small silence unfolded among the group, broken by Marcus's quiet, "Need you any greater proof than that, Quintus?" The man shook his head.

The commander managed to break Rome's steady gaze long enough to look at the senators. "Marcus, Quintus—if I may, I would speak to Romulus alone. Please, see to your injuries."

"Of course, Iulius." They gathered themselves up and moved to leave, but Rome straightened.

"Wait, Marcus."

The legatus paused, tent flap already brushed aside. "Yes, my nation?"

"Thank you for bringing Antonius with you," Rome said formally. "Given the situation with Pompey, it was by far the best decision to be made, and I'm grateful for it."

Marcus smiled. "Never let it be said that I do not understand a father's heart," he replied, then left.

Rome turned his attention back to Iulius. Now that the others were gone, practically every day of the commander's life was etched into his face, an unbelievable exhaustion paling his cheeks. He chuckled faintly. "To think such a day would come, when my friends would urge me on to treason," he commented dryly.

"It's only treason if you believe Pompey has any authority," Rome countered lightly.

"You don't?"

"I believe Pompey is a tyrant in the making."

"So you would style me a tyrant in his stead," Iulius stated.

It was Rome's turn to laugh. "Iulius, I would take your tyranny over his a million times."

A smirk flickered on the imperator's lips, then faded. He took a breath. "Did you speak the truth?"

"About tyranny?"

"About the people."

Rome smiled, warm and almost paternal. "Yes, Iulius. You have the people behind you. You have _me_ behind you."

"And what more could any man ask of the gods?" he murmured softly. Seconds ticked by, before the man heaved a sigh. "This was not how I expected the Gallic campaign to end."

"Welcome to life, Iulius!" Rome declared as he stood, clapping a hand on the commander's shoulder. "I think this calls for a drink, wouldn't you? We'll make you an enemy of the people yet; then Pompey will really have something to bitch about."

Iulius shook his head, bemused. "You're enjoying yourself."

"I'm going to lose Pompey!" he replied happily. "My sons are here, the best commander I've had since _Sulla_ is about to declare war on a corrupt Senate—if you don't want the wine, Iulius, I will _gladly_ drink your share! I never finished breakfast, I should do that, probably before the wine—You there!" he pointed at a servant as he poured himself a goblet. "Pray go find Marcus Antonius and Quintus Cassius; send them here once they've been patched up. And lunch—we've a war to discuss."

Iulius gave Rome an incredulous look when the nation plopped down again opposite him. "Sometimes I wonder if you're not mad."

Rome gave a short bark of a laugh. "Dear Iulius, when you are as old as I am, when you have seen all I have seen, I dare you to remain sane." He flashed a smile and raised his goblet in toast.

-o-

Antonius rushed for the brazier as soon as they reached they tent, rubbing his hands together furiously. "Why is it so cold here? Back home it only ever snows in the _mountains_," he whined, stamping his feet.

"It's not that cold," Aurelius mumbled, looking at the new boy's thin leather shoes, completely unsurprised by his complaints.

"It is _very _cold," Antonius said with an air of finality as he plopped down on the ground by the glowing embers. His head tilted slightly. "What are you wearing?" he asked.

Something about his tone made Aurelius's cheeks colour. "Warm clothes," he answered, sitting as well.

"Your boots have _fur_ on them," Antonius said incredulously.

"They're _warm_," Aurelius replied defensively.

"They look dumb. Why don't you have good boots?"

"These are good boots—"

"But they're not Roman. All the best things are Roman."

_That can't be right_, Aurelius thought, but didn't reply. "I guess…" he muttered.

The tan skinned boy eased his hands closer to the brazier. "What's your name again?"

"Aurelius."

"He named you golden? That's nice!" Antonius chirped brightly. "Rome gives good names."

"What does yours mean?"

"Worthy of praise!" he stated proudly, puffing out his chest slightly. Aurelius felt another little pain in his chest—he was worthy of praise too… The energetic newcomer babbled on, oblivious to his companion's abrupt silence.

"I'm really happy to see Papa again; I haven't seen him in months! He left me behind in the city, but he said he'd get me a present when he came back from the war—I hope it's something really pretty! But I came out here so he probably doesn't have my present yet, since he hasn't been back to the capital—"

"You grew up in Rome?" Aurelius interrupted, brow furrowed.

Antonius looked surprised. "What? No! I grew up in Hispania, with my mama Iberia."

Aurelius had heard of Iberia—one of Mama's sisters; she mentioned her from time to time. He had never met her though. "But—"

"She died," Antonius shrugged slightly.

"Oh." Aurelius thought of his mother's funeral pyre, and said, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay!" the younger boy reassured him quickly. "I don't really remember her; I was little when she died, so it's fine."

The blond-haired child shifted, taken back by the thought that somebody's mother dying could be 'fine'. Death obviously happened, but fine? "So Rome adopted you too?"

"Yup! He adopted me first!" Again a note of pride, and Aurelius couldn't decide which was worse: knowing that Antonius wasn't Rome's son by blood, or knowing that he had gotten adopted first. It made everything seem… less special, to know that Rome had another son, that Rome had _adopted_ another son after—

"How did your mother died?" he asked bluntly, and internally winced.

Antonius seemed unaffected. "Oh, she died in the wars."

"The wars?"

"Yeah. She got really sick during the Punic Wars, but she lived until the Lusitanian War," he answered.

Aurelius fidgeted; he had no idea what any of those conflicts were, and suddenly he _desperately_ didn't want to ask Antonius. He could probably ask Cassius later. "I see…"

"But like I said, I was very little; I don't remember any of it, really. Rome told me."

Aurelius nodded and edged a bit closer to the brazier. A treacherous part of his head wondered if Iberia had died in that war because Rome killed her. Or did she die on the battlefield like Mama, killed by soldiers? If Rome killed her, who knew if Antonius's words were true. He was likely just repeating whatever Rome told him.

_When did we decide that Rome's a liar?_

He didn't. But maybe, was that what Rome did? Went around waging war on people, killing the guardians and taking their children as his own? Why would he do that?

"Does Rome have other sons?" he asked, glancing at Antonius.

"Nope! Just me—well, just us, now. Wait, no…" Antonius paused, frowning. "I think there's another boy, in Greece—his name is Domitius Romanus Graecus, or something like that. I've never seen him though; he stays in Greece."

"Was he—"

"Adopted? Yeah, I think so."

Aurelius had a strong suspicion the Grecian boy's mother had died in war too. He wondered if it was just happy coincidence that so many lands Rome tried to conquer—_had_ conquered—just so happened to have sons he could then adopt. But why wouldn't they have kids? Practically all adults had kids. He figured he would too, when he was much older. Although Rome didn't have any children… Maybe he was lonely. But conquering an entire land just to gain a single son seemed a little ridiculous, even if he was really lonely. But if it wasn't loneliness, what was it?

_Power_, his growing awareness whispered. _Power and territory, and a conquered population that gets in line and doesn't complain._ Mama told him he would have to be careful when he was older, because where a guardian went, the people would follow, and vice versa: where the people went, the guardian was compelled to follow. He hadn't really understood then what she meant—was it like playing follow the leader? Somewhat, she responded slowly, but deep in your soul. And hard to notice until after it happened. One day she would look back and realize how incredible what she was doing would appear to herself even a year before, how impossible or even fundamentally wrong, but now it seemed so right that she couldn't bring herself to care about the difference.

Like Aurelius. Living with Rome. Six months ago he would've spit on the ground at the very thought and swore to In Dagda that he would sooner die. But now… Now it seemed to make perfect sense. Where else would he be, if not with Rome? Hiding with a doomed rebellion? Living with Britannia in the north like Mama had wanted, leaving his people abandoned? No, better to live with Rome and learn from him, to grow strong and keep his people safe and happy. Some of Mama's—_his_ lands now, he supposed—had already been Roman provinces for decades already, and the people there were doing well, and happily so. And yet it was somewhat unnerving, to think that his thoughts could shift just like that, because of his people. And now that his thoughts were shifting, did that mean his people's would shift further? Once the last two tiny rebellions were defeated, would his people be at peace with Rome, content to be Latin citizens?

"Oh…" The realization struck him with quiet force strong enough to steal his breath away. The guardian follows the people; the people follow the guardian. Which is easier to shape—the thoughts of a whole people, or the thoughts of a single individual? The Gallic king had been at least partially right, though he didn't know it: it was not a question of simply losing honour, to have Epasias's son swear loyalty to Rome. It was a matter of deeply important politics. Is that why Mama had tried to send him away? Thinking back on it now, she must've realized how close she was to losing, although she had nearly turned the tables at Alesia. Did she send him away for his safety? Or did she send him away to protect her people, because if he fell into Rome's hands he would be a _weakness_.

The idea _burned_. It tore a gash in his heart, an aching line of grief across his memory of her. But that was unfair, wasn't it. Why couldn't she have sent him away for both reasons? To keep him safe and protect her people? But even if the reasons were two-fold, it still _hurt_. Politics, politics was beginning to coat everything and Aurelius hated it.

Antonius was watching him curiously. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine…" Aurelius mumbled, tucking his knees closer to his chest. "It's just cold…"

"You see, I _told_ you," Antonius said, and draped part of his cloak over Aurelius. The blond haired boy let him scoot closer and pool their warmth. Antonius's happy chatter washed over him like a river, and he let his mind drift away with it.

-o-

The initial battle plans were drawn up: Iulius would take the Thirteenth Legion and march on Rome, accompanied by Romulus and Marcus. Once the city was taken, Marcus would be placed in charge of the Italian peninsula—Pompey would doubtless flee elsewhere and attempt to continue his attack, and Iulius would pursue. In the meantime, the legions remaining in Gallia would clean up the last two minor rebellion threats and begin training a Gallic legion, as well as institute Roman provinces, courts of law, markets, and other such useful things that make a place civilized.

"We can address potential alliances later," Iulius said, his lunch forgotten beside him. "It would be best if this could remain a strictly internal affair, though that is unlikely."

Rome thought of all the nations who would _leap_ at a chance to get involved in a civil war if only to use it as a cover to tear him to pieces, and nodded.

"For now, a break—we can reconvene later tonight," the commander finished, motioning for people to rise. "Rest well, everyone, and return with fresh thoughts—ah, but a word, Romulus."

The republic inwardly groaned; he knew this would be about that look from earlier. And here he was hoping all the talk of war would make Iulius forget. He waited until Marcus and Quintus had left before starting with a tired smile, "Alright, Iulius! What is it you disapprove of now?"

The imperator frowned faintly. "I don't disapprove; I only question your judgement."

Rome snorted. "On what?"

"Did you ever tell Aurelius that you have other sons?"

Rome blinked. "No. Why?"

"I presume you missed the expression on his face while you were hugging your Hispanic boy—a blend of shock and betrayal."

"_Betrayal?_ Good gods, you'd think I just killed his favourite horse!" Rome scowled. "Truly, Iulius, we're on the eve of war and you have me tarry to lecture on this?"

Iulius held up a hand in peace. "I only wish for you to take care; now is not the time for your house to fall out of order—"

"My house is already out of order, Iulius," Rome snapped. "I'm helping you plot a _civil war_."

"Your _immediate_ house, then, with your sons—"

"At least I _have_ heirs!"

A frigid silence coated the space in a breath. Rome softened. "I'm sorry, Iulius, that was uncalled for—" he began but the commandeered gently cut him off.

"But nonetheless true," he conceded, bowing his head slightly.

"Regardless. As exciting as this whole business is, it makes me anxious." He cracked a small grin. "I should save it for Pompey."

A small smile tilted Iulius's lips as well. "I would appreciate that."

"Then it's done." A shorter silence, less harsh than the first as Rome waited for Iulius to decide if he would press the matter or not.

The man sighed. "Go to your sons, then. We'll meet again later."

Rome saluted. "Yes, sir."

He found them crouched by the brazier, Aurelius's supplies of carved wooden figurines spread out between them in battle formations as they screamed furiously at each other.

"Surrender!"

"No! Legio Hispana Trimphalis doesn't lose—!"

"Your whole left flank was weak! My infantry rolled up your line against the mountain—"

"There is no mountain!"

"_You said the brazier was a mountain, that's why I couldn't surround your forces to start with—!"_

"Boys!" Rome rushed over, and both fledgling nations turned to him in an instant, shouting to override each other.

"Papa, Aurelius said that Trimphalis lost—"

"They did!"

"—but my legion is really strong!"

"Your legion didn't use good tactics, you lost!"

"No!"

"Yes you did, surrender!"

"One at a time!" Rome said loudly. "Antonius, what happened?"

Aurelius bristled as Antonius began, "Trimphalis attacked his legion and won—"

"You're lying!"

"Don't interrupt—" Rome warned, but Antonius's attention shifted straight back to the other boy.

"No, Trimphalis always wins, I bet you don't even _have_ a legion—"

"I rolled up your line just like Legatus Rufus told me!"

"No! Papa, tell him I won!" Antonius pleaded.

"But he _didn't_, I did—!"

"I send in two legions, you both lose!" Rome thundered, glaring. They fell silent, Aurelius much more sullenly than Antonius. Rome took a breath.

"There's something important I have to tell you both," he began, pausing to make sure he had their attention. "I am going to war to drive out an evil man from the Senate. Iulius, Marcus, and I are going to march to the capital to fight him—"

"I'm coming with you!" Antonius declared, his eyes wide.

"_No_, Antonius—"

"You let Aurelius live at camp with you! You love him more than me!" he shouted.

"What, _no—_" But Aurelius tensed at that, hurt flickering across his face and Rome inwardly swore. "I love you both _equally_. Camp is no place for children—" Ugh, but where would he put them? "You'll stay with me until the capital is safe, and then you'll live with Calpurnia, Iulius's wife—"

"I want to live with you!" Antonius wailed.

"This is not up for discussion," Rome said crossly. He glanced at Aurelius, and saw the boy staring at the floor. "Aurelius?" he prompted.

He glanced up, then fidgeted. "I would stay with you, Papa," he said quietly. "I'm not Roman. Not yet."

A flash of puzzlement crossed his mind, unsure of how to interpret that. "You're doing fine," he assured him, expression slightly confused.

"Papa—" Antonius began but Rome shushed him.

"Not another word, son. Now, I have to meet with Iulius again for dinner—until then let's ride, okay?"

Both boys brightened, but Antonius quickly backtracked. "But it's _cold_ out!" he said aghast.

"No it's not," Aurelius countered, standing. "I'll ride with you, Papa."

Antonius leapt to his feet. "No, I will too!"

Rome looked between them, and had a suspicion this would rapidly become difficult to balance.

-o-

There were a few questions submitted after last chapter, but unfortunately they were asking about future events in the fic, which I decline to answer in author notes. If you want to know what happens later on in the story, please continue to read!

Check back on Monday for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques and praise if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to post a link to this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. See you next chapter!


	14. Crossing Lines

_Ante diem 4 Ides of January, 49 BCE_

Rome spotted Iulius standing on a small rise overlooking the river; a still, imposing figure, sword at his waist, plumbed helm tucked under his arm, red cloak fluttering in the faint breeze. From here, it was impossible to tell the expression on his face, but as he neared, the details of Iulius's face solidified out of the fuzzy distance into a look of calm resignation. Rome came to a stop beside him and didn't say anything for a moment, watching the men organize supplies by the tiny wooden bridge that stretched across the water.

He broke the silence, asking, "That's the last of it?"

Iulius nodded. Rome glanced at him, then back to the river's reddish hue. "Not have second thoughts, are you?"

"No. But it is a difficult thing," the man replied.

Rome hummed. It occurred to him that this was probably breaking every traditional bone in Iulius's body, the decision to maintain _imperium_ in Italia. He wondered if it was as difficult for loyal citizens to commit treason as it was for nations to execute loyal citizens. "Going to wear your sword into the Curia Hostilia?" he asked with a sideways glance.

Iulius finally looked at him in a mix of disbelief and horror; Rome burst out laughing and the commander colored faintly. "I don't see what's funny about that," he grumbled.

"Nothing, my friend; I'll stop, I'll stop," Rome chuckled, patting Iulius's shoulder. "You know, I'm not sure one could call this treasonous, given that I'm right here egging you on."

"A mixed blessing."

"Oh, that's not nice," Rome mock-pouted.

Iulius almost rolled his eyes. "Where are your sons?"

"Oh, probably trying to kill each other somewhere," he shrugged.

"It was a serious question."

"And I gave a serious answer," Rome muttered darkly.

Iulius turned to face him. "They get along that poorly?"

"Eh… Not always. I think they will actually make good friends in time. But currently they're very keen on outdoing each other in my eyes. Riding, history, letters, fighting—Antonius has been begging me almost non-stop for a sword and armour of his own, ever since he learned that Aurelius has been training with the men. I'm worried they're going to hurt themselves." He sighed, adding, "Or each other."

Iulius nodded. "I did try to tell you—"

"Not. A word," Rome warned. "I realize you tried to forewarn me. I'm too stubborn for that."

"Your self-awareness is impressive," Iulius commented with a barely repressed smile. Rome huffed, no force behind it.

"Brothers can be a challenge… I've always wondered," the imperator began after a moment's silence, grey eyes on the bridge. "About your name, Romulus."

"Hm?"

There was a brief hesitation. "Did you have a brother?" he asked simply, glancing at the republic.

Rome didn't move, observing the men below finish up for several long seconds before he replied slowly, "A very, very long time ago." Why would Iulius ask him this, now of all times?

Iulius gave a slight nod. "We do what we must."

Rome shot him a startled, nearly suspicious look, but Iulius was already striding away towards the docks, shouting for the legion to form ranks. Rome took his place slightly off to the side, waiting as the men assembled themselves, and caught sight of his sons disentangling themselves from among the soldiers to race over to him. As they neared he groaned.

"Papa Papa, Aurelius hit me!" And there was a rapidly appearing black eye as proof.

"You started it!" The blue-eyed boy spat blood as he shouted, his lip split.

_I am going to beat you both_, he threatened internally, dragging one to each side of him as he hissed, "_Hush_. We'll talk about this later—"

"Men!" Iulius called, and Rome automatically straightened, his grip on his sons' shoulders tightening painfully until they stilled. "Behind me lies the Rubicon, the northernmost boundary of Italia, beyond which no man may hold _imperium_. We will cross this river, but I must tell you that once we do, we will have to fight all the way to Rome, that great, shining capital of our beloved republic. I realize that I am risking more than just my life—by doing this, I risk all of yours as well, my strong, loyal men. It is possible that I might not win—Pompey is a formidable enemy. But I have faith in you, good soldiers, and in the people, too long ignored by the Senate which promises to speak for them. It is a shameful day when an army speaks for the people with more eloquence than the senators, but if it must be so, let it be us, our army, that gives voice to the will of the people!"

"Imperator Gaius Iulius Caesar!" someone abruptly shouted from the midst of the ranks, and the entire legion broke out into cheers and cries of victory and Rome felt his heart swell, elation sweeping away his worry about legality or propriety. He saw the grateful shock on Iulius's face and grinned like a fool—tradition be damned, Iulius was their leader.

The commander held up his hands and gradually the legion settled back down. Rome could feel Aurelius practically vibrating under his hand, the thrill of the legion beginning to sink into him from weeks of training.

"Let the die be cast!" Iulius shouted.

The men broke out again into cheers, and Rome couldn't wipe the grin off his face. Pompey, beware. They were coming, and they would not be stopped.

-o-

"Come on, Iulius, take a seat, will you?" Rome called jovially from his seat on the sofa, Antonius and Aurelius on either side eating their lunch. Officers and men rushed about the tent, consulting with each other, making notes, rushing off to check this or that. "Celebrate a little!"

"Romulus, I have just _gained two legions_—" Iulius replied with a hint of irritation, eyes on a sheaf of parchment.

"Which is _exactly _why you should be celebrating!"

"And must address the matter of their incorporation," the commander finished firmly, before continuing to issue orders.

Rome clinked his goblet unto the table and slouched back into the cushions. "You know, boys," he drawled loudly, "I think that maybe Iulius just doesn't love me."

"Nuh-uh, Papa, Iulius loves you very much!" Antonius chirped around a mouthful of bread.

Iulius nodded, not even looking up from his papers as he blindly found the desk, grabbing a pen and marking something. "There, you see? Listen to your son."

"Have you been corrupting my children?" Rome asked in mock credulity. He dragged Antonius close, clutching him to his chest and the younger boy squirmed. "Have you been _swaying_ them to speak against me?"

Aurelius saw the long-suffering look on the imperator's face as he straightened and handed off a letter. "I think you're making him mad," he noted.

Rome released Antonius, who threw himself backwards on the couch. "Angry or crazy?"

"_Both_," Iulius replied bluntly. "You could _help,_ you realize." He turned, attention already grabbed by the next issue at hand.

"You've already got a fine grasp of things," Rome said kindly. "Besides, do you really want me touching your precious documents?"

Iulius repressed a cringe at the very thought.

"And _that_, my boys, is how to avoid doing paperwork!" the republic declared, handing Aurelius the wine goblet. He drank deeply, watching Iulius and Rome banter over the wide rim of gold. He was happy that Rome was so happy. Iulius had said that once they crossed the Rubicon, they would have to fight all the way to the capital, but so far every village and town they encountered had welcomed them with open arms, offering them food and gold from their treasuries. This, Aurelius could easily see, was _wonderful_, but it meant that somebody had to figure out what they had and where it was going. Rome said that Iulius was delegating as much as he feasibly could as quickly as possible, but Aurelius still thought the imperator seemed a little overwhelmed. He also seemed almost inexplicably happy though, even when busy with orders and organization and paperwork, as if he had been worried something terrible would happen and was proven wrong time and time again. The soldiers appeared happier too, now that they were back in Italia and by villages and towns. Aurelius hadn't been _in_ any of the towns, but he saw them from camp—lots of white plaster buildings, _tall_ plaster buildings, taller even than some trees! The streets were paved with stone, even the roads outside of the city were paved smooth, and his horse made a _clip clip_ sound as then went along. And these were just towns—he couldn't even imagine what Rome looked like. He finished the wine and set the goblet back in the table, feeling a pleasant warmth settled into his bones.

"I am setting a _fine_ example for my children," Rome stated as he and Iulius continued their playful bickering. He tugged Aurelius close and nuzzled his hair; Aurelius grinned as Iulius snorted, and Rome let him go, motioning for a servant to refill the wine. "Where do you think Domitius Ahenobarbus has run off to?"

"Probably on his way to join up with Pompey," Iulius answered, handing off the entire stack of papers and dismissing some of the men in the tent.

Marcus glanced up from the inventory he was double checking. "I _still_ think you should've executed him," he grumbled. The tribune had been very insistent that the newly elected consul for the Gallic territories, the man with which Pompey wanted to replace Iulius, not be given a chance to cause further trouble.

"That's not Iulius's _style_, you know that, Marcus," Rome grinned as the commander sat down opposite him and took some bread. "Besides, I bet you ten denarii the man will swallow poison within a day."

"_Romulus_," Iulius said sharply.

"_What_," the republic countered. "A senator like him—though far braver than Pompey I will give him that—can't take the strain of being alive after a shaming surrender he didn't expect to survive. And why do you think he'll join up with Pompey? I spoke with the man; he expected Pompey to _reinforce_ him."

"A vain hope," Marcus commented.

Rome nodded. "Couldn't figure out why he would think that, given that he was aware of Pompey's escape to Capua. 'Rome cannot be held', ha. Sounds like cowardice to me. Last anyone heard, our illustrious proconsul is currently fleeing to Brundisium."

More information Aurelius didn't know. "What's Br- Brundisium?"

"It is a port city located on the north shore of the Apulian peninsula," Rome replied, beckoning for a map. He held it out in front of him, both Aurelius and Antonius leaning in to see. The more Aurelius saw a map of Italia, the more he couldn't help but think that it resembled a strange sort of boot—which put the city of Brundisium on the backside of the skinny heel.

"We're here," Rome said, indicating a small city labeled 'Corfinium' in small ink letters. "Due east of Rome were it not for the Apennines mountains. So, boys—seeing this, with us here and Pompey there, what is the best course of action?"

Aurelius felt his heart quicken a beat—Rome had been doing this ever since they crossed the Rubicon, questioning them on tactics and what to do. It was like a training exercise, only much more real.

"Beat them!" Antonius declared exuberantly, bouncing where he sat. Aurelius rolled his eyes much like his father and answered, "Try to trap them against the sea and force them to surrender."

Rome nodded, adding, "Pompey has ships."

"Oh." The implications were obvious, and his suggestion ineffective. "Do we?"

"No, not yet."

"Wait—they get away?!" Antonius said worriedly, finally catching on.

Rome shrugged. "It's possible. If they do—what then?"

"Chase them!" the tan boy bounced again.

"We don't have any ships, stupid," Aurelius snapped. This was _his_ test to answer!

Antonius fluffed up instantly. "I'm not stupid, _you're_ stupid!"

"_Boys,"_ Rome growled, and they both mumbled apologies, more to him than each other. He glared at them each a moment more before continuing, "We could chase them, yes. It would take time to procure ships, but it's an option. Aurelius, what do you think?"

The blonde glanced back to the map. Rome accepted Antonius's reply as a possibility, but didn't move on to another question, which must mean there was a better answer. If Pompey escaped from Brundisium by sea, where would he go? He wasn't sure, but really, they couldn't actually know where Pompey would go until he got there, so it was a moot point. What else was important? Most of the senators were joining up with Pompey for military protection, especially since Pompey had only left Ahenobarbus behind with troops, and now he had surrendered, which would leave Iulius with the only military force in Italia if Pompey sailed from Brundisium. Even if chasing him was the best answer, they would have to wait for ships to be built—what would they do in the meantime? His eyes flicked over the painted cities, thoughts churning.

"We wait," he said finally, eyes still on the paper. "Focus on solidifying power here, because even if- even if Pompey leaves Brundisium, he won't go to Hispania, it's too close to the troops in Gaul- Gallia," he elaborated abruptly, the plan suddenly unfolding in his mind's eye. "So that leaves places over here," he gestured off to the right side of the map, to the east of Italia, "Roman places, so he could raise more troops. But we'll stay here, and make sure this is all on our side," he gestured vaguely to where the rest of Europe would be on a bigger map, and glanced up at Rome hopefully.

Rome was grinning, a proud, pleased expression. "Very clever," he agreed, and Aurelius beamed.

"You're raising a regular little strategist, aren't you?" Marcus said, finished with his inventory.

"That's the idea!" Rome ruffed Aurelius's hair, letting the boy smooth it back into place afterwards, and looked up. "Iulius, what are you doing now?" he moaned.

"Penning a letter," came the reply, the commander's attention focused on his words.

"_Relax_," the republic insisted. "A letter to who?"

"Pompey."

"_Pompey?"_ Rome and Marcus demanded in unison. Aurelius scooted back from the Roman slightly as he felt the other tense. "For what?"

"You know very well for what," Iulius said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Gaius Iulius Caesar, I admire your respect for tradition and decency, but you are wasting your time trying to persuade Pompey to make peace with you," Rome said sharply. Aurelius and Antonius exchanged worried glances—that was the tone Rome used when they had been fighting and he was _tired_ of it. "Pompey is an arrogant bastard convinced that you're his _subordinate_ and should therefore be following his orders. To put it bluntly, he thinks he owes you _jackshit_."

Iulius put his pen down. "It is ridiculous for Roman to fight Roman—" he began in a forced calm.

"It is ridiculous that you think that Pompey will negotiate!" Rome yelled. "Damn it, Iulius, I didn't encourage you to start a coup with the hopes that you'd _make peace!_"

"Had it ever occurred to you that making peace would _save the lives of your people—_" Iulius countered loudly, and Rome nearly exploded, flying to his feet.

"_Everything_ I do I do for my people! I can live no other way, which is far more to ask of any one man! How _dare you_ suggest that I place no value in human lives, in the lives of my people, the very thing which sustains me, more than bread or wine ever can! You think I _enjoy_ civil war? You think I enjoy that nagging whisper, that hideous constant sensation in the back of my mind that _begs me_ to side with _Pompey_?! Oh yes, Iulius, that begs me to side with him—don't look so stunned, Marcus, this is not so impossible a reality. Years upon years of tradition claw at my soul and pull me towards him; it is _painful_ to be here! But I _am_, for the _sole reason_ being that _my people want me here!_ They are _sick_ of Pompey; they are _sick_ of the Senate; they are _sick to death_ with longing for a ruler who will _lead _them, care for them, listen to them! They long for _you_, Imperator. Gaius Iulius Caesar, they wait for you."

No one moved, frozen in shocked silence at Rome's impassioned outburst. Rome stood, eyes locked with Iulius, his entire body quivering like a plucked bow string, as he took slow, deep breaths, pulling himself back together.

Antonius shifted very slightly, reaching out gently, "Papa—"

"_Don't._" It was perfectly level, a single word sharpened into a blade so keen it could sever a soul. Antonius flinched, tears pooling, and carefully sat back again. Aurelius reached over blindly, eyes trapped by the sheer force of Rome's power, and found Antonius's hand, giving it a quick squeeze. Antonius sniffed.

Without breaking Rome's gaze, Iulius slowly set the half-finished letter aside and slid off the sofa to the floor, kneeling at Rome's feet, his right hand fisted over his heart. "Romulus Ilium Romanus, Republic of Rome, I am ever your servant," he said.

Rome took another breath. "I know, Iulius, I know," he said, exhaling shakily, a faint smile returning to his lips. He stooped slightly, hooking his hand under Iulius's elbow and pulling him to his feet. He put both hands on the commander's shoulders as he continued, "Forgive me—sometimes I forget the differences between us, and then when noticing them in stark contrast lose my temper in frustration."

Iulius offered a rueful smile to match the sheepish one on Rome's lips. "With the weight you carry, Romulus, I can hardly blame you," he said, clasping the republic's arms.

They remained that way a moment before stepping back, and Rome laughed when he finally looked aside. "Marcus, dear friend, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

The pale legatus shook his head slightly, eyes still wide. "I know not what I saw."

Rome smiled, a warm paternal expression. "Your _nation_, Marcus; no more, no less." His attention turned to the two territories on the sofa behind him— "Oh damn; I scared you both, didn't I?" He crouched at the sofa's edge, arms opened. "Come here, I'm sorry; I'm not angry."

Aurelius hesitated for a second before releasing Antonius's hand, throwing his arms around the republic, hugging him tightly. He felt Antonius join them a moment later, sniffing and trying not to. Rome shhhed and soothed, whispering quiet comfort as he rocked faintly, petting their hair.

"That was really scary," Aurelius whispered. Rome was _powerful_, an overwhelming sort of force that left him trembling even though the words hadn't been directed at him. He couldn't imagine how Iulius did it—it made him want to cry just seeing it. Antonius _was_ crying a little.

"I know, I'm sorry," Rome apologized, kissing his forehead.

"Imperator?"

All eyes turned to the tent's entrance, where the messenger stood awkwardly, saluting. "Um, please forgive the interruption, but I bring a message."

"Speak then," Iulius nodded, visibly grateful for the break in tension.

"We've just received word that Pompey has sailed from Brundisium."

Silence; Rome straightened slightly, his hold on the boys loosening a touch.

"Thank you; you're dismissed," Iulius said into the quiet, and the man left.

Rome looked to Iulius, the commander staring off from the group unseeing, plans formulating behind his grey eyes.

"What now?" Aurelius whispered. Rome laid a single finger over his lips.

Iulius's gaze focused, his attention shifting to Rome. "We will march to Hispania," he decided. "And engage Pompey's supporters at Ilerda."

"To Hispania, yes!" Antonius exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

Aurelius looked at him in confusion. "Um, we're going to fight your people," he said, in a tone that suggested his opinion about Antonius's intelligence.

"Nu-_uh_, my people are smart! They won't fight against Rome!" Antonius said confidently.

Aurelius almost pointed out that if Antonius's people thought that Pompey was on Rome's side and not Iulius, then they'd still end up fighting, but a warning look from Rome stopped him. He let Rome stand with Antonius on his hip, happily babbling about Ilerda, and realized suddenly that his prediction had been correct. They weren't going to chase Pompey; they were going to ensure that they were victorious in the territories

_Ha, take that, Antonius_, he thought smugly. _Rome might have adopted you before me, but I am clearly the better son_.

And so he was content to sit on the sofa listening to Rome discuss the strategic details with Iulius and Marcus, Antonius in the republic's arms, because he knew Rome would love him more.

-o-

Two questions this time, both from J'suis le Canada. First: Are other smaller places going to appear? Like is Euskal Herria going to appear, how about Brittania?

I don't currently have plans for Brittania to appear in anything more than passing mentions, and actually did not recognize Euskal Herria by that name at first (learning new things, yay!) For Euskal Herria in particular, I feel I definitely do not know enough about the people, their culture, or their language to feel comfortable including them in my written works, not without a _lot_ of research first. There will be other nations showing up in the next few chapters though~

And second: Is this going to continue all the way to the fall of the Roman Empire, or only until Gaule Latine grows up a bit more and the Italies are born/created?

Um, I honestly haven't decided yet. We're over four hundred years off from the fall of Rome, which would be _tonnes_ of history to cover in fic format. I might take it up to the appearance of the Franks and/or the fall of Rome, we'll have to see.

A quick shout out to Saileach, who caught my subtle Latin pun in Greece's Roman name. While he is named Domitius, "the tamed one", _Dormitius_, "the sleeping one" would arguably be more appropriate!

I will be skipping next week's update-I realized while writing this chapter that I needed to do more research about Iulius's Civil War if I wanted to present the next few chapters accurately, so I'll be taking a week off to dedicate to research. So check back Monday the 28th for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts so you don't have to worry about it. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to share this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. See you next chapter!


	15. Siege

_March, 49 BCE_

"I hate sieges," Rome grumbled as he entered the tent, wrenching his helmet off and tossing it aside. The clatter as it rolled away seemed wondrously quietly after the shrieking hell that was the front line at the city walls. It was insane that they were even doing this—Massilia had been allied with him for hundreds of years. Damn Pompey for claiming authority and branding Iulius a traitor.

Antonius collided with his knees a few seconds later, rocking him back a step. "Papa! I missed you; are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay," Rome replied wearily, petting the boy's hair absently as he scanned the small space. "Where's your brother?"

"Oh. Last I checked he was hiding under the bed crying," Antonius sneered.

Rome pushed him back by the shoulders. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Antonius protested, ducking out from under his hands. "He was looking sad and kinda sick so I asked him what was wrong and he said his people were dying so I told him, I told him that maybe if his people weren't dumb enough to fight _you_, then maybe they wouldn't die—"

"Enough," Rome scowled, sweeping past him towards the bed. "Cassius, would you take Antonius for a walk around camp?"

"I didn't do anything!" Antonius insisted stubbornly as the Gallic servant led him out of the tent.

Rome paused, decided it really wasn't a conversation he wanted to have that very moment, and let them leave without comment as he crouched by the bed, pushing the sheets aside to reveal the space underneath. Aurelius was dead asleep, tucked into a tight little ball, no pillow, no blanket in the crisp early spring, his blond hair drifting over his face to partially hide the distress even sleep couldn't fully erase. Rome sighed, reaching out to softly stroke his face. "Hey, Aurelius; wake up. Come on, son."

Blue eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then he jerked upright, cracking his head on the solid underside of the bed, yelping as he knitted his hands over the pain. "Ow…" he gritted out, tears pricking in the corner of his eyes.

"Oh, Aurelius…" Rome muttered ruefully, gently pulling the boy out from under the bed. Aurelius curled up in his arms immediately, burying his face into the crook of Rome's neck, the only place bare of armour. Rome sat back, one vambraced arm around the boy's waist, his free hand softly petting his hair.

"Is it over?" Aurelius whispered.

Sieges lasted for months; Rome didn't have the heart to point this out. "Not yet," he answered truthfully. He hardly needed to reply; Aurelius could feel the answer in his bones, the same way Rome could feel his men dying at the walls. It was a sensation Rome had learned to mostly ignore, through centuries of battles, each one digging its nails in a little deeper, clawing away a little more of whatever it was that had made him weep as a child. Sentimentality, he suspected, replaced by practicality. He couldn't weep for every man lost, he would've gone insane. Nevermind that each man felt like a friend, a comrade. From what he had gathered over the years, people did not have this problem, just him, or maybe just those like him. He envied them.

Aurelius didn't lift his head, suggesting quietly, "I could go talk to them—"

"No," Rome cut him off.

"But—"

"_No_. We are not doing that again—"

"I want to help!" Aurelius said desperately, bracing his hands against Rome's chest to push himself back. "They're _dying_, there must be something I can do to help—"

He felt his expression soften. "Aurelius—"

"Please let me try talking to them, they'll _listen-_"

"No they _won't," _Rome stated firmly, the force of his words rendering Aurelius silent. "Son, you have to understand, this is no failing on your part. Hey, look at me," he chided as the boy cast his gaze aside. "Come on, look at me. Aurelius." He lightly caught his chin and drew his face back, meeting his eyes as he continued seriously. "I need you to listen carefully. I'm going to tell you something very, _very _important. This is one of the truest things I know. Understand, that you will never, _ever_, have every last one of your people supporting you. Never."

Aurelius blinked at him. "Never?"

"Never. Consider my situation: some of my people have sided with Pompey. And it hurts, I know it does—it hurts you for the people of Massilia to fight when you don't want them to. It hurts me to have to fight other Romans, my own people. It hurts, and it's frustrating, but you can never forget that they're _still part of your people. _You're their guardian; you have to do what's best for all your people, even when they make you angry. Even when it hurts. Even when it's hard- _especially_ when it's hard."

Aurelius nodded solemnly, then frowned. "But then, shouldn't I try to talk to them?"

Rome shook his head. "Right now, what is best for your entire people is to avoid getting captured by Massilians. What happened at Tricasses, when the village knew who you were?"

"They wanted to fight harder," he mumbled, regret lacing his words.

"Exactly. We do not want that here. You understand?"

"Yes," Aurelius mumbled again, and Rome hooked a finger under his chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met.

"Listen. What you can do for your people—_all _your people—is grow stronger. Keep learning."

"I know—" he started, trying to pull away but Rome stopped him. "If you know, then you should do so."

"It hurts."

Rome sighed. "I know it does. Trust me, I know." He shifted Aurelius onto his hip as he stood, keeping the boy in his arms. "Eventually you'll get used to it," he said grimly. "All nations do."

Aurelius groaned and buried his face into the crook of Rome's neck again. Rome continued to pet his hair, rocking him slightly until he felt the boy's breath even out into sleep. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, when the siege began that Aurelius would be more or less unaffected, since Massilia had originally been a Greek colony. But hundreds of years within Gaul's territory, learning her ways and language through extensive trade, seemed to have blurred the lines. He wondered if Domitius was suffering, across the sea in Graecia—he wondered if Pompey had gotten a hold of him, the thought knotting his stomach. But it was pointless to worry about that. If Pompey did get his hands on Domitius, Rome would get him back, simple as that. In the meantime, he had two other sons that needed his guidance, and comfort.

He only wished that Aurelius would grow accustomed to war quickly.

-o-

Aurelius hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thud, and spat a wad of dust-filled spit into the torn-up earth. He pushed himself up with a groan looking back to the young soldier, blinking as his silhouette blurred for a moment.

"Okay, again," he heard himself say. The soldier nodded uneasily, and Aurelius rushed him, grabbing the cloth belt at the man's waist as he planted a foot inside the other's stance, throwing his shoulder into him and leveraging his weight—

His opponent side-stepped, taking advantage of Aurelius's now weakened stance to sweep his feet clean out from under him. Another thud, and his vision swam for a moment, pulling his attention away from the deep ache in his bones he knew had nothing to do with the bout. But his vision cleared and the ache resurfaced; he rolled onto his side and staggered to his feet.

"Again," he called.

The soldier shook his head. "Young guardian, I think we should stop—"

"_No," _he countered swiftly as the ache expanded from his chest into his limbs. "Again!"

"Young guardian, I must insist—"

"_Again!" _he shouted, and dove for the man again, who promptly caught him by the shoulders and sent him sprawling. The blue of the sky was blinding, and for a moment he simply laid there unmoving, but the ache crawled back through his bones and he forced himself to his feet. Before he could even say it, the soldier was shaking his head and Aurelius scowled.

"We are going to continue until I say otherwise, soldier; again!" he yelled, hating the way his voice wavered.

"Aurelius!"

The soldier saluted as Aurelius turned, the world sliding dangerously, tilting away before righting itself. He saw drying blood on Rome's breastplate and his stomach rolled.

"Praepositus, this man refuses to follow orders," he declared, pointing back to the unfortunate soldier.

"You lack any rank with which to order him," Rome replied as he drew even with them.

"What-"

"I have not bestowed upon you a rank from which you may issue orders to my soldiers in a time of war." The republic nodded to the equites and dismissed him; once they were out of ear shot he returned his attention to Aurelius. "What are you doing?"

"Training," Aurelius said defensively, eyes on the ground. No rank at all—it felt like a punch to the gut. He was Rome's _son_.

Said nation was frowning at him, taking in the dirt-smeared tunic and growing bruises. "It looks more like you're trying to hurt yourself."

"I'm getting stronger," he insisted stubbornly.

He heard Rome sigh. "Did you eat lunch?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying?"

Aurelius stared resolutely at Rome's sandals.

"Aurelius..."

"If I hold still I can feel it," he blurted.

"You can feel—?"

"Them. Dying," he said haltingly. He twisted the hem of his tunic in his hands and tried to focus on the feel of the weft between his fingers.

Rome crouched down into his line of sight and he looked away; the republic gently turned his head back and Aurelius couldn't meet his gaze, the blood on his armour leapt out at him in mocking crimson as Rome studied him—

He stood. "Fight me."

Aurelius blinked, looking up at him. "What?"

"You wanted to train," Rome said, removing the sword belted at his waist and tossing it aside.

Aurelius nodded, grateful and nervous all at once. He waited until Rome shifted into a grappler's stance, and then—

He barely laid a hand on him before the world wrenched sideways as the bigger nation slammed him into the ground, every scrap of air fleeing his lungs. He whimpered, but the ache had retreated under the fresh wave of dizziness so he shoved himself back to his feet and lunged again—

Rome caught his arm and yanked him forward, throwing his small form into the dirt; he felt the grit grind into his skin as he skidded a short ways, grimacing. But still he hauled himself up.

Twice more, then Rome cracked his elbow into the back of Aurelius's skull and everything winked out in an instant.

Rome watched Aurelius crumple to the ground silently. _The sooner you adjust to the pain, the better, _Rome reflected sadly, picking up the boy's limp form and cradling him in his arms. _The sooner the better_.

-o-

_April, 49 BCE_

"I fucking hate sieges," Rome stated, flinging himself down onto the sofa in Iulius's tent.

The commander glanced up from the report, then back down. "I believe you have said that every day since the siege began," he noted mildly.

"Yeah, and it's still true," the republic grumbled. "These take _forever."_

_"_Yes, well; speaking of that..." Iulius set the sheaf of papers aside, surveying Rome with an even look. "I think we should move on to Ilerda."

Rome cocked an eyebrow. "You want to break the siege?"

"No," Iulius laughed. "Not at all. I'm leaving Legatus Gaius Trebonius here with the Twelfth, Thirteenth, and Fourteenth legions."

"You plan on leaving him with only newly-formed legions?" Rome asked incredulously.

"It will be valuable combat experience for them."

"Mm_hm_," Rome hummed. Valuable combat experience, and a potential disaster. "You don't really think this needs your attention then."

"Correct."

"Even with Domitius Ahenobarbus now there commanding the Massilians?"

"Even still." Iulius stood and came over, sitting across from the republic. "Your prediction of suicide was off."

Rome shrugged. "He tried. His doctor has a good heart, gave him a sleeping drought instead. So! We'll continue to Ilerda."

"Yes. This was never supposed to side-track us for two months; I cannot allow Afranius to continue consolidating power in Hispania," the imperator said, tone slipping into something closer to oratory. "I sent Legatus Fabius with only three legions; he'll be wondering why we hadn't joined him yet."

"Likely. Petreius and Varro are at Ilerda too, I believe. But, you do realize Pompey is consolidating power and allies in Africa," Rome pointed out.

Iulius sighed. "I realize. I'd prefer settling Europe before we sail off."

"Reasonable..." A small silence stretched between them, and then Iulius asked, "How are the children?"

Rome groaned and signaled to a servant for wine. "Aurelius is fairly miserable. Hasn't been eating much, but is instead training himself to exhaustion each day. Antonius keeps provoking him about the siege in spite of my warnings—I think the next time he does it I won't stop Aurelius from pounding him into the floor." He muttered a thanks to the servant and took a long drink of wine.

Iulius accepted a goblet as well and sipped it more slowly. "So what are you going to do?"

"Deal with it as best I can while at war. It's not like I can simply leave them somewhere-"

"Calpurnia-"

"-wouldn't understand the pain they're going through, Iulius," Rome rode over the commander, sinking sideways onto the sofa, propped up on an elbow. "Not like I do."

"They?"

"If Antonius doesn't end up in the same state as Aurelius once we besiege Ilerda, I will be disturbed," Rome stated succinctly.

Iulius fell silent, mulling this over. "Will anything help?"

"Yes—winning the siege as quickly as possible."

"Ah... And so we shall."

Rome lifted his goblet in wordless salute and emptied it.

-o-

You may have noticed that I grossly underestimated the amount of time it would take me to research the civil war. Sorry about that. Check back Monday for the next update, or add this fic to your Alerts so you don't have to worry about it. As always, feel free to question, comment, or offer up critiques if you'd like to share them. And please, if you've enjoyed this fic so far and think you know someone else who'd also like it, please feel free to share this story on your site, Facebook, Tumblr, LJ, Twitter, etc. See you next chapter!


	16. Order and Discipline

They left Massilia besieged by the legatus Gaius Trebonius and three recently-formed legions, and continued on towards Ilerda in Hispania. Aurelius couldn't decide what was worse: being _at _the siege, knowing that every day Rome went out and killed Massilians and Romans alike; or leaving the business to someone else. Trebonius had strict orders not to storm the city though, which was some comfort. As the month passed traveling, Aurelius slowly gained an answer to his indecision—the ache in Aurelius's bones began to lessen, still present but not as sharp, not as all-consuming. The first night he managed to avoid nightmares he panicked in the morning, shaking Rome awake to frantically ask if Massilia had fallen, if the siege was over. But Rome had hushed him, calmed him down and asked him to pause, listen to his body, was the ache still there? It was, from which Rome deduced that the siege still continued. Aurelius's brow knitted in confusion, and the republic elaborated to add that in his experience, the ache was _always_ worse if he was there. The farther away they went from Massilia, the less Aurelius would ache, although it wouldn't completely stop until the battle was done. Satisfied, Aurelius laid back down, and Rome quietly thanked the gods for the short reprieve as he felt Antonius shift restlessly on his other side.

The deep midnight purple bruises Aurelius had sustained during his desperate training sessions had faded to a sickly pale yellow by the time they reached Ilerda. Antonius couldn't stop fidgeting.

"Papa?" he started, watching Rome and Iulius pour over a map of the surrounding area. The Pompeian forces had refused to hole up in the town, making camp on a hill a short ways from the gates. Their own camp was currently some four hundred paces from there, dug in _downhill_, and it didn't take a military genius to know that commander and republic wanted out.

"Yes, Antonius?" Rome replied distractedly, not looking up. Aurelius glanced up at his brother from his place kneeling next to the table, a better position to observe the planning.

"You're not going to fight Ilerdans, right? Just Pompey's legions?" he asked, picking at his nails nervously.

Aurelius saw Rome's expression slip out of that characteristic battle eagerness he got when planning a fight and into a calm neutrality. Antonius had asked the wrong question. "I will fight those who ally themselves to fight against me," Rome answered simply.

The young brunette bit his lip, glancing from Rome to Iulius and back again. "But, the Ilerdans aren't the bad guys; Pompey is—"

"Antonius, if Ilerda allies with Pompeian forces and offers battle, then I will meet them in battle," the republic stated.

"But—they're not the bad guys!"

"It doesn't matter," Aurelius snapped, glaring, annoyance leaping up to catch in his throat. "It doesn't matter _who_ they are; if they fight they die-" His voice cracked very slightly on the last word, and he swallowed thickly, trying to focus on the here and now and not the _aching_—

"Boys, don't start," Rome warned. "Antonius, eat your dinner."

"I'm not hungry," he mumbled.

"_Antonius_."

"Fine…" He picked up his bread and proceeded to tear off tiny pieces, dropping them onto his plate one by one. Rome sighed, and returned his attention to plotting.

Aurelius dragged his gaze back to the map, but his thoughts churned. Antonius should be _grateful_ that Pompey's men had come out of the town—unless something went terribly wrong, they wouldn't have to put the town under siege at all.

"We've got to get higher ground," Rome was repeating for about the hundredth time. "I hate having the low land in a battle—"

"I know, Romulus, and we will. I'd suggest—"

"Wait," Rome cut him off, holding up a hand. "Boys—take a look at this map. What do you think we should do?"

Battle strategy again. Aurelius leaned forward, studying their placement. To one side of the map was the town, then the wide plain in front of the gates, with a slight rise in the center, then the hill where the Pompeian camp was, and four hundred paces from that, their camp. It really was a poor position to be in, downhill and about as far from their goal as possible.

"We should attack the bad guys and force them off the hill," Antonius pronounced.

Aurelius rolled his eyes. "We should try to get this high ground here," he said, pointing to the small rise on the plain. "Then it'd be harder for Pompey's men to get supplies from the town, and we could surround their camp on this hill."

"Very good, Aurelius," Rome smiled. "Granted, this damn hill is barely wide enough to draw up three cohorts, nevermind an entire legion, but—"

Under Rome's observations, Antonius glowered. "Maybe you should've stayed in Massilia and helped kill your own people—"

Aurelius jumped to his feet. "It's not my fault your people let Pompey's men in!"

"Boys—"

"Yeah but I bet it _is_ your fault that Massilia rebelled; now the whole city's gonna burn—"

"Shut up!" Aurelius shrieked, lunging for the other territory and yanking him off the sofa- the dinner plate clattered to the ground as they both fell, cursing and swinging, colliding with the table with such force that a wine goblet overturned—Iulius wrenched the map up out of harm's way as Rome scrambled to grab at least one of them. His grip found an elbow and he bodily heaved the boy up as the two stubbornly continued; he'd hand him to Iulius but even a nation-child's strength could prove too much for mortals—

"Get off him! _Get off!_" he shouted, hauling up the furious child—Aurelius, he had grabbed Aurelius, and the boy managed to land a final kick directly to Antonius's jaw before Rome flung him backwards onto the sofa, positioning himself between them before Aurelius could dive for his brother again.

"Papa, he started it—!"

"Antonius said—!"

"_Enough!_" he thundered, and both territories fell silent. He could _flatten_ them, it would be his right—of course they had to do this in front of _Iulius, _he should beat them _both_— Struggling to scrounge up some semblance of control, he glared at each of them in turn, noting Antonius's split lip, the rapidly forming black eye Aurelius would soon be sporting, the claw marks down their faces and arms, tunics torn, bloody noses…

"That behaviour," he began, voice a deadly quiet, "is _completely _unacceptable. If I ever,_ ever_ catch you quarreling like that again, I will switch you both myself—_regardless!_" he cut off the beginning of Antonius's complaint with a swift gesture. "—of who may or may not have started it. Do you understand?"

Aurelius wiped a smear of red from his face. "Yes, Papa," he muttered.

"I didn't hear you."

"_Yes_, Papa," they chorused louder.

Rome looked between them for another moment, debate warring behind his eyes. "Cassius, take Aurelius back to the tent," he ordered.

The blond shot him a hurt look, but dutifully allowed himself to be led out. Antonius pinched his nose to staunch the bleeding and moved to climb back onto the sofa.

"No, Antonius," Rome blocked him. "Quintus, bring Hispania to the physician; I want to double check that his nose isn't broken."

"It's not!" the hispanic territory whined, but Rome ignored this, watching as Antonius was also escorted out. The tent flap fell back into place with a whisper, and Rome sank down into his seat, abruptly weary. He could feel Iulius's eyes on him from across the table, wordlessly observing him as if from on high—

"What?" he finally snapped.

Iulius shook his head. "This is no place for children."

"Yes," the republic agreed curtly. "War never is. But children or not, they're guardians. By gods they're going to have to learn how to function, and function _well_, during the heat of war, or perish."

Iulius sighed, waiting for a servant to wipe up the spilt wine before he returned the map to the table. "Yes, well; let's determine tactics if nothing else."

Rome nodded and sat forward, losing himself as they delved into strategy and which legions to use and how to array the men on the field and where the cavalry should be placed. But the back of his mind was turning over the issue of his sons, and how to get them to stop killing each other. They were stressed, restless...

"What am I going to do?" he murmured to himself.

"Hm?" Iulius glanced up from the battle orders he was writing.

Rome jerked his head towards the tent flap. "Them."

"You know my opinion on the matter, Romulus."

"Yes, as you've told me countless times," Rome scowled. "I need something _now_."

Iulius finished the orders and set them aside, placing the ink reed beside them with a small click. "I am perhaps not the best person to ask," he began cautiously.

Rome gave him a look. "Iulius. If there is anyone from whom I would seek advice, it's you."

"Flattered as I am, you would do better to ask Marcus—"

"Just because someone has children doesn't mean they have good advice on being a father," Rome said, before backtracking swiftly, hands raised, "Which is not to say that Marcus is a bad father! Only that sometimes a fresh perspective—"

"Peace, Romulus," Iulius smiled, leaning across the table to pat Rome's knee. "I'm not offended on Marcus's behalf." He sat back, brow furrowing as he considered the situation. Rome waited, hoping the commander would have another one of his sudden insights—war was politics, why couldn't raising children be too?

"Perhaps..." Iulius started, then fell silent again. "... Perhaps they have too much time to reflect on their discontentment. Boredom is a horrible thing."

"They already have lessons in the mornings—" Rome began to dismiss the suggestion, but Iulius continued. "But in the afternoon?"

Rome hesitated. "I didn't want to give them too much."

"I think you've probably given them too little. In a war camp, everyone has something to do, and a few minutes to relax is a precious thing. It might help them to have the same limitations."

The republic nodded. They were sort of aimless once afternoon came, and that's when a majority of their scuffles happened...

Well, if his military forces were any indication, order was something Rome could do.

-o-

Aurelius followed behind Cassius in sullen silence. Rome had announced over breakfast that the two territories would now have chores to complete after morning lessons, strongly hinting that failure to complete said tasks would result in something unfortunate. Aurelius knew the timing of the announcement wasn't merely coincidental; they were being punished for yesterday's outburst. Well, maybe if Antonius wasn't such a stupid brat, he wouldn't be stuck mucking out the horse corral.

"Why can't Antonius do this instead?" he moaned as Cassius handed him a pitchfork. The thing was taller than he was.

"Praepositus Illium Romanus wanted something physically tiring," Cassius replied.

"I could be _training_," Aurelius grumbled, dragging the pitchfork over to the corral. It was more solidly built now than their first night in camp, when the horses had suddenly spooked and broke through a weakened portion of the wall. Many of the men in camp took it as a bad omen, especially the Gallic cavalry, and the new engineer responsible for the faulty design had a fine taken out of his pay. Most of the extended corral was empty now, the horses bearing their riders into battle on the hill; a half dozen servants stood in the dung-covered expanse, likewise armed with pitchforks. Aurelius took this all in with a sinking heart. All six legions currently camped at Ilerda had an equites attachment, which was a hundred twenty men strong, which meant _seven hundred twenty horses_ in total.

He turned back to Cassius. "This is going to take _forever_."

Cassius shrugged, stepped up to the edge of the corral, pitchfork in hand. "Then we'd best get started."

Aurelius groaned, and got to work. Clean the whole corral—what, did Rome think he was Hercules? No river to divert here. The minutes crawled by, and he inwardly whined about the stupid task and his stupid brother and the stupid horses and the stupid sun, which graced them with unseasonably warm weather for May and brought out the flies. At the very least horse dung didn't smell too terrible, or maybe just not so terrible that Aurelius couldn't handle it. He shovelled dung into a wheelbarrow until it was full; one of the servants wheeled it away and left an empty one in its place. The work was endless. Scoop, shovel; scoop, shovel; new wheelbarrow—scoop, shovel. The rhythm of the work began to sink into his muscles, and his grousing thoughts slowed and stilled, until he simply shovelled without thinking, head in a daze, thoughts flitting in and out without giving him a chance to catch one and inspect it.

"Aurelius."

He looked up, blinking at Cassius. The sun had slid far to the west, trailing long shadows across the corral to depict impossibly tall people, still more impossibly tall horses. The other servants were resting their pitchforks against the fence post and filtering out towards the gate, awaiting the return of the cavalry as battle ended for the day.

"Are we done?" he asked.

Cassius nodded. "And now you are getting a bath before dinner."

"_Yes_," he agreed vehemently, setting aside the pitchfork and heading back. They were the only ones in the tent when they arrived; Antonius and Rome hadn't returned yet. Ha, finished before them. He peeled out of his sweat-soaked clothes and sank into the warm bath with a sense of smug satisfaction, sighing happily as Cassius scrubbed off the day's dirt. The water stained a light brown before the Gallic servant deemed him sufficiently clean, wrapping him in a soft towel by the brazier and rubbing scented oil into his skin.

Then the tent flap was batted aside as Rome ducked in. Aurelius opened his mouth to greet him happily, but faltered at the look on the republic's face.

"Is Antonius here?" he demanded.

He shook his head. "No, praepositus," Cassius added.

Rome swore. "I will tear this fucking camp apart if I have to—" he growled, storming back out.

Aurelius stared, then glanced at Cassius, who cleared his throat slightly. "Why don't we have dinner now? We'll make sure to leave some for them." Aurelius nodded.

Rome didn't return during the course of dinner, and it wasn't until Aurelius was flat on his stomach by the brazier, playing with his wooden figurines, that they heard him approach.

"—thought you had gotten _captured!_ I am furious—I had to call _four contubernii_ to help search for you, do you have any idea how much trouble you caused?!"

"I'm sorry, Papa—!"

"Oh you will be—"

The tent flap snapped aside; Aurelius and Cassius leapt to their feet as Rome marched in, dragging Antonius by the wrist after him, the boy struggling to keep up with the older nation's strides. Rome shoved the territory at Cassius, who caught him by the shoulders, letting him regain his balance. Rome stomped right past Aurelius with hardly a second glance and snatched a long thin piece of wood from the corner. Antonius's eyes went wide and he almost succeeded in ducking out of Cassius's hold.

"No, Papa, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, please don't—"

"Antonius, if you don't lay down of your own accord, so help you gods, you won't be able to sit afterwards!" Rome roared. Antonius squeaked and threw himself down on the ground, burying his face in his arms. Aurelius watched, frozen in shock, as Rome wrenched up Antonius's tunic to reveal his tan legs right up to his buttocks, and snapped the willow branch across his bare skin. Antonius _wailed_, his entire body recoiling from the blow, and Rome laid three more quick lashes across the boy's thighs before he stopped.

"What are you _never _going to do again?" Rome bellowed over Antonius's hysterical sobbing. He waited a half beat, then demanded, "_Answer!"_

"Hide- from- you- 'cause I- didn't- do- my- _chores_!" Antonius howled. From where he stood, Aurelius could see thin red welts already rising against the skin.

"_Especially_ not when we're _at war_," Rome added, scowling. His gaze flicked over to Aurelius. "And you? Did you finish your chores?"

Aurelius nodded frantically, and Rome glanced as Cassius. The servant nodded.

Rome sighed, tossing the switch back towards the corner as he stepped over Antonius's prone body, ignoring the boy's bawling. He took a seat on the sofa, burying his face in his hands, arms propped against his knees, and didn't move for a moment. Aurelius stood exactly where he was, unwilling to draw attention to himself. They remained like that—Antonius laid out on the floor, Rome hunched over on the sofa, and Aurelius standing stiff and cautious by the brazier—until Antonius's crying began to wind down to snivels, deep shuddering breaths as he tried to push past the pain. When he was mostly quiet again, just little whimpers, Rome dropped his hands.

"Get off the floor and come here, Antonius." His voice sounded strangely dull to Aurelius's ears.

Antonius cringed, but hauled himself up off the floor, snot running freely as he waddled over to Rome, eyes downcast, wincing from the lash marks.

Rome gently took him by the shoulders. "Do you understand why it was _really scary_ to not be to find you?" he asked, tone low and insistent.

Antonius nodded, sniffing.

"Do understand that I love you?"

Again, he nodded.

"Are you angry at me?"

Aurelius saw his brother hesitate, then shake his head. Rome took a breath and nodded, pulling Antonius into a tight hug.

"It really hurts," Antonius mumbled, eyes red.

"It's supposed to," Rome replied quietly, giving him a quick squeeze before letting go. "Alright. I think it's time for bed—Aurelius."

Aurelius straightened slightly as Rome turned his attention to him. "Yes, Papa?"

"Come to bed."

"Yes, Papa."

They curled up as usual: Rome in the centre, a territory on either side. Antonius laid on his side, the welt stinging whenever something touched them, and tucked himself right up next to Rome. Aurelius rested his head on Rome's chest by his shoulder, listening to the slow steady heartbeat of a great nation as he drifted off, grateful he had the common sense to finish his chores.

-o-

I haven't been able to figure out how many chapters it's going to take to get through the Civil War-initially I thought maybe one to highlight each battle, but then Egypt. Ah well; we'll see how it goes. Next Monday is the update; as usual, feel free to question, comment, critique, or pass this story along to people you think will enjoy it! See you next chapter!


	17. Injury and Premonition

One night Rome returned to the tent bloodier than usual, his right arm and vambrace slick with red, and it took Aurelius a few moments to realize it was Rome's.

"Papa!" He and Antonius shoved off the floor and ran to him; he quickly held up a hand to ward them off, expression closed and tired and wary all at once.

"If either of you touch me, I'll probably throw you through the table," he growled, and the territories halted in their tracks. He walked past them to the sofa, right arm limp at his side, and lowered himself into the cushions with a grunt. Antonius edged closer; Rome glanced at him with a guarded look, and the boy stopped.

"Papa, what happened?" he asked. Aurelius came up next to him, blue eyes following the blood stain up Rome's arm to where it disappeared under the overlapping scale guarding his sleeves. The cuirass was punctured, just next to where it joined the scale mail at the shoulder, a short thin gap no longer than the length of Aurelius's finger.

"I got hurt, what else?" Rome snapped, fumbling with the cuirass strap over his shoulder one-handed. "Fuck—Aurelius, get this off me."

Aurelius stepped up and carefully unbuckled the cuirass, first on the left side, then the right, holding it as Rome eased himself out with a hiss. "Ugh, _fuck_ that stings…" Rome mumbled, gingerly inspecting the gash, pressing down tenderly next to the wound—a fresh gush of blood surged out and Aurelius felt his stomach flip once before settling into an oddly detached state.

Rome set Antonius to boil a clean cloth in water over the brazier, keeping Aurelius to help him peel out of his armour, his arm and torso sticky with blood. Aurelius couldn't believe that Rome had actually been _wounded_; it wasn't until it happened that he realized the way Rome appeared to him—immortal, untouchable. Not a warrior who returned to camp with stab wounds.

They were just getting Rome out of the last few piece when Iulius pushed the tent flap aside.

"So you _were_ hurt," he said, and Rome scowled.

"What is this, the theatre? Is injury so hard to believe?" He glanced away, murmuring, "No one comes through a war unscathed."

Aurelius set the final piece of armour aside on the floor and wondered about the way Rome shifted when he said that. Anxious?

Iulius waved Aurelius away and took his place. "Let me see."

"No."

"Don't be stubborn, Romulus—"

"I said _no_."

Iulius sat on the edge of the table and ignored the glare, gently pushing Rome's hand aside. He sucked in a quiet breath. "You know, were you anyone else, this would cost you the use of your arm," he pointed out, voice tinged with awe.

"Good thing I'm not anyone else," Rome grumbled, reaching past Iulius for the bowl of water Antonius set on the table. He squeezed most of the water out, then carefully dabbed out the wound, wincing slightly as the cloth stained red. Iulius reached for it and Rome held him off. "You are my imperator, my consul, my good friend and confidant—not my nursemaid. Remove yourself if you can't restrain your mother hen urges."

Iulius relented with a rueful smile.

Aurelius stood close by the commander's side, almost touching. "You'll heal?" he asked.

Rome didn't look up. "Of course I'll heal."

"What do you make of the fact that you've been injured?" Iulius asked.

The republic snorted. "It's a _civil war_, Iulius. Even if it goes well, I'm going to end up hurt."

Aurelius felt his worry lessen, watching as Rome washed the blood away. The wound seemed much less scary without all the gore. "What happened?"

Deep brown eyes flicked up to him, then to Iulius. "Found Caecilius in the battle; he managed to stab me, got this look of sheer horror on his face—hard to know if it's because he realized who I was, or because I rather reflexively stabbed him back," he recounted, lips twisted in bitter mockery of a smile.

Iulius nodded. "He was a good first centurion."

"_Was_ being the now most relevant word in that statement," Rome added with a sigh.

Antonius frowned. "Why are you sad? They're the bad guys."

Wrong question to ask. Aurelius watched Rome's expression somersault through disbelief and rage to settle on annoyance. "They're still my people," he ground out. "They're _all_ my people."

"But—"

Before Antonius could bury himself further, Aurelius threw his arms around Rome, heard him hiss in pain as he jarred his shoulder. The boy didn't move, hugging him tightly, and the republic deliberately untensed, slowly prying Aurelius off with a kind hand. Their gazes met, and Rome held it for a long second, before nodding. "Thank you."

Aurelius returned the nod, not entirely sure what happened, but Rome no longer looked like he was about to hurt something, so it must've been good.

Iulius stood. "I'll send for the physician-"

"What? I don't need the _physician_-"

"You need sutures."

"Bull! This will heal just fine in two days or so."

Aurelius drew back a bit as republic and commander embroiled themselves in their bickering, edging over to Antonius and tugging his hand. "Come on," he pulled, and led his brother just outside the tent.

"Where are we going-?"

"Just here." Aurelius turned on him. "That was _dumb._"

"What—"

"Don't tell Rome that his people are bad—"

"But Pompey's men _are_ bad—" Antonius huffed, and Aurelius shook his head. "I don't care if they're bad or not. It makes Rome really angry." _I think he wanted to hit you_. "You wanna get switched again?"

Antonius's shoulders hunched. "No," he mumbled.

"Then stop saying stupid things." He wondered how long Antonius could've been living with Rome in the capital _without_ having figured this out already. Don't say things to make Papa angry; didn't Antonius learn not to make his mother angry? And suddenly Mama jumped to mind unbidden, the first time in months and the ache of battle was completely overwhelmed by heartache as he felt his eyes prick with tears. _Stupid_, he chided, and shook himself, blinking them away.

"Boys!"

"Coming, Papa!" they chorused, and ducked out of the dying sunlight back into the tent.

Rome eventually consented to sutures while stubbornly insisting that this was a waste of everyone's time. Aurelius and Antonius slept on the same side of the bed to avoid nudging the wound, and Antonius shoved Aurelius onto the floor during the middle of the night. He insisted it was an accident. Rome didn't go into battle for the next three days, stalking crossly around the tent, agitated, restless. The mood was contagious—on the second day Aurelius and Antonius ended up fighting over Aurelius's toy soldiers and came to blows. Rome switched them both, swearing that they were lucky he couldn't use his dominant hand. On the third day Antonius suggested that maybe Rome should take a nap, and the republic laughed. What he needed was blood lust, not rest. Aurelius bit his lip, watching Rome pace a cutting line across the cooped up space, and ventured a guess:

"The ache?"

Rome stopped, looking at him with unreadable eyes as if he could unbury something even Aurelius didn't know he was thinking. He gave a short nod, and continued pacing.

-o-

There was no moon, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway: a thick layer of clouds coated the horizon from edge to edge, and he crept through the dark in muted silence, heart hammering against his ribcage. The others were equally quiet, torches and straw and buckets of pitch clutched tight against their bodies, hidden beneath voluminous cloaks. Out through the gates-no guards, they were so trusting!-and down along the wall, towards the towering constructions of wood pressed flush against the stone like a lover. They broke into groups, distributing supplies, and fanned out; he stole alongside a huge wheel and heaped straw at the base, dousing it with pitch before someone passed him a now-lit torch. The flames crackled to life quickly, all up and down the wall, and he watched them crawl up the wooden seige tower with a trumphant satisfaction- A trumpet in the distance; they drop their things and sprinted for the gates, grinning with the rush of victory as the blaze crackled and roared behind them-

Aurelius woke with a jolt-for a moment he didn't know where he was, the scent of burning pitch filling his nostrils, the heat of the fire on his back, but no, he was in bed, tucked up next to a softly snoring Rome. A dream, yet the impact of waking was as jarring as if he had just travelled to the very spot in seconds. Strange dream, vivid dream... Aurelius tried to push it from his mind, but the sharp, cruel sense of success remained until he woke again the next morning. But it faded as all dreams should, and he didn't think anything of it until a message came from Massilia two weeks later.

"Son of bitch, really?"

They were gathered in Iulius's tent, a dispatch from Trebonius in Marcus's hand. Rome took it, and read it again, scowling. "Under cover of a truce, even. Incredible."

He handed the letter off to Iulius and sat back between his two sons, oblivious to how pale Aurelius looked, and watched Iulius's grey eyes flick over the contents. "No casualties?" the commander asked.

"None," Marcus confirmed, but Rome added, "But the men are so discontented that there _will _be if something doesn't change soon."

"The loss of the siege engines is hardly worth a mutiny," Iulius frowned, but Marcus shook his head.

"The siege engines aren't really the point of it, though that hasn't helped. They want to storm the city."

"Of course they do..." Iulius pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's tempted to rescind the order, if only to give them something to look forward to," Rome shrugged. Next to him, Aurelius choked down a frightened sound and he quickly amended, "But we won't— no point to it; it'd cause far too much damage."

Aurelius nodded weakly, a knot of dread in his stomach. The Massilians had called a truce, to wait for Iulius's return in order to negotiate surrender, then used that truce as a cover to sneak out and destroy all the siege engines. And he knew exactly how that night went, could recall it even now, sitting beside Rome, that rush of glory he felt when the instruments of his destruction went up in flames. Was he a traitor? He didn't know what Rome did to traitors, but he had heard tales of how Rome pushed transgressors. He wondered how long he could keep his involvement a secret before Rome figured it out.

"Well, with Ilerda captured, there's nothing to hold us here; we'll go relieve Trebonius," Iulius decided. Rome agreed, and promised to return later that evening to go over plans. In the meantime, he led his sons back to their tent.

"They broke a truce!" Antonius was saying. "That's cheating! That's dishonourable!"

"Some people have skewed thoughts on honour," Rome replied, the tail of his red cloak catching in the wind.

"What are you going to do? Are you going to find them? The people who destroyed your stuff?"

Aurelius felt his heart skip a beat.

"If I can, I will."

"Yeah! Then they'll be sorry."

Aurelius tried to imagine being sold into slavery. Or fed to vicious beasts for sport. Or _crucified_—

"Either way, Massilia will fall, and it would be a mistake for them to resist further."

"I think I'm going to throw up," Aurelius announced numbly.

Rome glanced at him, not quite sure he heard. "What was that?"

Aurelius's response was to lurch forward and lose his breakfast directly onto Rome's sandals.

"Uuaghh—" He danced back a short ways, face contorted in disgust as he tried to shake what he could off his feet. Antonius shrieked and fled a few steps when Rome got too close.

Aurelius sat back on his heel, face flush, stomach still twisting—no chance of hiding now, Rome would want to know why, he never meant to be a traitor—Maybe if he confessed now Rome wouldn't hate him, he'd realize that it was an accident—

"I'm sorry," he choked out, tears brimming.

"It's— fine, Aurelius, just— please not on my feet next time—" Rome grimaced, trying to get his sandals off without getting his hands dirty.

"Please don't crucify me," he said anxiously.

Rome blinked at him. "It's just vomit, Aurelius; I'm not going to crucify you because you threw up on me. By gods, if I did that Antonius would've been put to death _years_ ago—"

"The siege engines were my fault!"

Rome stopped. "What?"

Aurelius could feel himself shaking. "I helped destroy the siege engines."

Antonius's eyes went wide. "I knew you made them rebel!" he declared, pointing an accusing finger at the blond.

"I didn't mean to!" he said desperately, shoulders hitching as he failed to hold back tears. "I didn't realize what we were doing—I wouldn't have done it if I had known!" Even as he said it, he wasn't sure that was true, remembering the intoxicating rush of flames.

"You're a traitor!"

"No!"

"Antonius, stop it," Rome commanded. He had managed to get both sandals off, the dirty shoes hanging limply in one hand. They were beginning to attract a crowd. "Back to the tent; we'll discuss this there."

"I'm sorry, Papa, I didn't—"

"_Tent_."

It was the longest walk of his life. Aurelius could feel Antonius glaring at him from the other side of Rome; the nausea hadn't gone away. Rome held the flap for them then followed, letting it fall shut behind them. To Aurelius's surprise, Antonius remained quiet, standing apart from them a short ways. Waiting for Rome to pass judgment, he realized with a spark of horror.

"Alright, Aurelius," Rome started, words hardened. "What do you mean you helped them?"

The blonde worried the hem of his tunic, unable to look at the towering republic. He could hear the disappointment in his voice. "I—I went with them, when they destroyed the siege engines. We carried straw and torches and pitch; I helped burn down a tower—" All details that Trebonius hadn't mentioned in his report.

"You went with them?" Rome frowned. "You've been at camp this entire time."

"In body- yes, but—" He hiccuped, breath coming in short little gasps as he tried not to break down again. "In my- dream- I went—"

A wave of relief broke over Rome's face. "In your dream? Aurelius, dreams don't count—"

Aurelius shook his head miserably. "I was- _there_; my soul flew out, like Mama—" And there his voice cracked, but he pushed past it. "Like Mama- could, and the Druids—"

Rome stiffened, the relief vanishing in a heartbeat as he knelt to eye-level. "Aurelius, are you a druid?" he asked seriously, dark gaze searching.

Aurelius sniffed and shook his head.

"Then your soul did not fly out like theirs," he declared firmly, repeating, "Dreams don't count."

He wasn't a traitor? His knees felt weak. "Then—then how did I know?"

"You're a guardian. Sometimes, we see things through the eyes of our people when we dream."

He blinked. "We do?"

Rome nodded. "Yes. They're not common, but they happen. I've had a few such dreams before."

"Like what?" Antonius spoke up curiously.

The republic glanced at him. "I dreamt of Gaius Flavius Fimbria, when he lied his way into Illium under the pretense of friendship only to massacre the inhabitants."

Antonius stared. "Oh."

"So I'm not a traitor? Aurelius asked. Gods, please let him say yes, he didn't want to betray Rome!

"You're not a traitor—oof," Rome confirmed, grunting as the blonde threw his arms around him, clinging to him tightly. "But if you have such a dream in the future, you should tell me, okay?" Aurelius nodded furiously, burying his face into Rome's shoulder, his wound long since healed.

"I want to dream through my people's eyes," Antonius pouted, arms crossed.

"Be careful, son—you might find that the dreams are not what you wanted," the republic said, releasing Aurelius and ruffling his soft hair. "They almost never are."

-o-

Next Monday is the update; as usual, feel free to question, comment, critique, or pass this story along to people you think will enjoy it! See you next chapter!


	18. Passing Griefs

They caught Varro with two legions a short ways from the city. He surrendered without a fight, and Iulius's forces grew again. Leaving legatus Quintus with four legions in command of the Hispanic territories ("Why so many legions?" "In case anyone decides to act up." "Oh…"), they made their way back to Massilia. The ache crept back over Aurelius like some awful disease, until finally he refused to get out of bed and Rome was forced to carry him to the horses. He had forgotten how hideous the feeling was, a steady leeching of his energy, an ache that seeped into his bones, into his very soul. The end of summer didn't help, with a blanket of unmovable humidity coating the land with a thick haze. Antonius went swimming in every river, stream, and small body of water they came across, and hid a large bowl filled with water and turtles under the bed. Rome made him put them all back, and he cried for hours; Aurelius threw a wine goblet at him and got scolded by Cassius, though perhaps not as strongly as he should've been.

Then one morning Aurelius woke up with a hollow feeling lodged in his chest, and he realized the ache was gone.

"Papa!" he whispered loudly, shaking Rome by the shoulders. The republic groaned and tried to roll over, draping himself over Antonius. The smaller brunette stirred, whining softly, "Papa, stop squishing me…"

Aurelius shook a little harder. "Papa, wake up!"

"Oh my gods, _what_?" he grumbled, voice heavy with sleep. He buried his face into Antonius's hair as if he could hide from the noise.

"The ache is gone."

A pause, and Rome snapped awake, propping himself up on one elbow. "What? You're sure?"

Aurelius nodded. Rome swore under his breath and kicked the sheets off, earning another whine from Antonius—"_Cold!_"—and swung his legs off the bed. "Gotta tell Iulius. My little weather vane of a son," he mumbled, adding louder, "Get dressed, Aurelius."

Aurelius hopped out of bed, more awake and aware than he'd felt in weeks. He was dressed in two minutes flat, waiting as Rome groggily dragged on clothes before they left for the commander. The last few stars clung to light as they crossed the camp in the pale gray of early morning.

Iulius was still sleeping as well, but Rome changed that in five seconds- "Iulius!" and plopped himself down on the edge of the bed.

The commander jolted awake, hand scrambling reflexively for a dagger even as he realized who is was. "Son of a bitch," he murmured, collapsing back into the pillows with an arm flung over his eyes. Aurelius tried not to smile.

Rome grinned. "Good morning! I come bearing good news!"

"That's a change," Iulius commented, unmoving. "And it couldn't have waited until breakfast?"

"It probably could have." Iulius gave him the flattest look Aurelius had ever seen, and Rome added. "Aurelius's ache is gone."

The commander blinked. "I beg pardon?"

"The ache of battle. You know this; I've told you before."

"The ache of—_oh_." Iulius sat up, gaze shifting to Aurelius. "It's gone?"

He nodded, feeling a nonsensical hint of pride. Better than the fastest messenger.

"Interesting. So the siege is broken…"

Rome shrugged. "At the very least they aren't fighting any more. They've probably surrendered. Looks like all you'll get to do when we arrive is mete out justice and record tribute. And by 'mete out justice' I mean probably let everyone important _go free_ as is your usual style, to the baffled annoyance of Marcus."

"I am not actually going to talk politics with you until after breakfast," Iulius stated matter-of-factly. "Good news? Fine, I'll make an exception. Politics? No, not unless absolutely necessary." He tried to tug the sheets free. "Get off my bed."

Rome stood in a huff. "_Fine_. See you at breakfast then."

Aurelius skipped alongside Rome on the way back. He couldn't believe how light he felt. "I feel like I could jump the camp entrenchments!" he marveled.

"Please don't try—I don't want to ruin the good mood by having to haul your lifeless body off the pikes," Rome teased, ruffing his hair. "You can go back to training now."

"I can?!" _Finally_, Rome hadn't let him train for _weeks_—

"You still have to do your chores though."

"Aw, _what?_ Why?"

And they bickered lightly the entire walk back, waiting for the morning trumpets to sound before they woke Antonius. They didn't fight at all during breakfast or lessons or chores, and after chores Aurelius followed Antonius to the creek to catch frogs and turtles and tiny silver fish that flashed and flickered in the sunlight. Everything seemed perfect and wonderful, and Rome played with them after dinner, fighting with wooden swords two against one until Aurelius got whacked too sharply in the arm and started crying—but it was only a feint, when Rome neared he lunged, quick! And clipped Rome in the shin, who yelped and danced out of range again.

"Oh, _tricks_ now!" he shouted, laughing, fending off a furious little blow from Antonius, fighting on the defensive. "Tricks and feints, I see how it is—good work, boys! Oi, Iulius!" he called to the passing commander, who paused. "Come join us!"

"Romulus, you know I don't have the time—"

"Boys, get him—charge!"

"_What—_"

Aurelius and Antonius ran for him shrieking, swords hoisted above their hands—Iulius shoved his stack of papers into Marcus's arms and dashed a short ways off. Rome tossed him his wooden sword and Iulius snatched it out of midair, just in time to intercept the first blow. They harried the commander, forcing him back before the man realized that the territories were actually making use of their training and coordinating their attacks. He redoubled his efforts, bringing them to a stop, interspersing his defense with careful offense, enough to make the boys shriek and scatter momentarily before resuming their onslaught. Rome watched, grinning from ear to ear. By gods, Iulius would have made an excellent father.

"How do we stop?" the imperator called out, a little breathless. He parried a clever shot from Aurelius, glancing up for help.

"Try losing," Rome suggested.

Iulius shot him a look, almost took Antonius's sword to the hip, and lunged forward, driving the brunette off but Aurelius step into his place a moment later- Rome knew Iulius saw the incoming blow, but he stumbled, clutching his side in mock agony, and collapsed to one knee. A short thrust from Antonius and he sprawled backwards into the dust.

"Get him!" Antonius shouted, and Iulius laughed, arms held up to ward off any accidental blows to the face as the two boys mock stabbed him, and abruptly Rome got this funny little _twist_ in his stomach, like a hunter suddenly struck by feelings of pity for the deer being torn apart by the dogs.

"Hey, come on, boys, enough!" he called out, jogging over to them. Antonius and Aurelius backed off and he offered a hand to Iulius, pulling him to his feet. He was smiling still, not actually hurt, and the strange sensation dissolved as quickly as it appeared.

It must have shown on his face though, because Iulius paused. "Romulus? Are you alright?"

Rome mentally shook off the last trace of it. "I'm fine—bit disheartening to see one's best imperator be defeated by two children though," he grinned.

"Oh please," Iulius scoffed, but any further complaint was cut off by Antonius and Aurelius, practically standing on their feet, bouncing slightly in their excitement, did we do good did we win fight me again!

"Iulius has work he needs to do," Rome said, retrieving his sword from the commander and receiving a grateful look in return. Shifting in a solid stance, he gestured towards his sons. "Come on, boys; let's go."

They fought Rome until the shadows grew too long to avoid, swallowing up their footwork and prompting Rome to finally call the duel in their favour. Antonius began visibly nodding off during dinner, and Aurelius smiled at everything, a puddle of wine warming in his stomach, sprawled out on the couch more like a cat than a lanky boy. Rome tucked them into bed early and both boys snuggled right up to him; Aurelius buried his nose against the republic and breathed in the scent of strength and olives and warm sea breezes, a healthy sense of exhaustion spread out through muscle and sinew.

The rest of the trip to Massilia went smoothly; Aurelius and Antonius spent the afternoons after chores playing in and around camp, or playing word games when marching confined them to horseback for hours on end. They hardly bickered; Rome caught Iulius observing the territories as they split the spoils of a late berry patch between them without a fight, and the republic shot him a triumphant look. _Ha, you see? I can bring order to my own house just fine_. He knew the commander was fond of them though, which is what saved them when they started playing tricks on both nation and leader—leaving silly nonsensical riddles in their armour, hiding things in beds what really should not be in beds. (The frogs were not a good choice—they spent hours scrubbing sheets in a frigid mountain stream until their hands were raw and their backs ached.) At Iulius's suggestion, Rome correctly understood the pranks to be demands for attention, and spent his late afternoon until dinner time sparring with them, or telling stories about the gods, or politicians, or battles, sometimes all three. The pranks died down and Iulius stopped checking his boots every time he had to pull them on.

Massilia had indeed surrendered by the time they arrived. Iulius predictably pardoned the leaders, to Marcus's sputtering disbelief, and Rome's spirits were buoyed by the incredible amount of gold the city added to their resources. The men who had broken the truce to destroy the siege engines were identified and crucified as traitors; Aurelius hid in his tent and struggled to avoid the site of the crucifixions, to the right of the gates leading into the city. He kept his eyes on the ground as Rome led them past, watching the dust settle on the tips of their shoes.

"Bless the Greeks, they built a _bath_," Rome gushed, steering them by the shoulders towards a columned building. "Not as nice as the ones back home, but for a trading outpost it's not bad."

"A bath?" Aurelius glanced up at the vaulted ceiling as they passed through the doors, the humidity enveloping them immediately. The floor and walls were tiled with mosaics, images of water nymphs, horses galloping through ocean waves, women bathing together. Very pretty, but not pretty enough to make walking past the crucifixions worth it.

Rome managed to convey why they were there to the wary attendant through a combination of Greek and pantomime, acquiring three soft towels that he handed to each of them before leading them down a hall to an archway on the left and—

Aurelius stopped, mouth agape. The huge room was open to the air, with a columned overhang to provide shade. Large potted plants, some of them miniature trees, were placed around the room, giving the strange illusion of a forest, and in the center was a large pool sunk into the floor, its clear waters sparkling in the daylight. They were the only ones there, save for a smattering of servants stationed around the room.

Rome dropped his towel on a bench and stripped out of his clothes. "Go on, boys; into the bath."

Aurelius changed in silence, still staring at the space. Antonius threw down his clothes and jumped in, disappearing under the surface with a splash onto to reemerge moments later, face lit up as he swam. Rome followed at a more reasonable pace, stepping down the shallow stairs until he could ease himself into the water with a sigh. Aurelius edged up to the pool and sat down, dipping his legs in— a small gasp escaped him, the water was _warm_. He pushed off from the edge and sank into the water, shivering as the warmth enveloped him.

"This is amazing," he marveled, swimming over to Rome. He had never seen anything even close to this.

The republic grinned, seating himself on a submerged ledge. "It's not bad. Like I said, there are better ones back home."

"They're beautiful!" Antonius chirped, still pretending to be a fish.

Rome nodded. "I'll bring you once we reach the capital." He gestured for a servant and got a small jar of oil, scooping out some to scrub into his hair.

"When will that be?" Aurelius asked, settled onto the ledge next to Rome. The water came up to his shoulders, but only to mid-chest on Rome.

"Soon as we're done here. Europe's pretty much taken care of at this point; now we just gotta kick Pompey out of Africa and Asia Minor." He dunked his head, rinsing his hair; when he came back up, he reached for the jar again. "Let me wash your hair."

Aurelius drifted over and settled on Rome's lap, letting the republic gently work the oil through his hair, trying not to tangle anything. The warm water around him, Rome's strong fingers rubbing circles into his scalp, melded together wonderfully and he hummed, eyes sliding shut. He could practically feel all the awful times from the last few months just slough off, washed away with the grime and dirt.

"Such lovely gold hair," Rome commented, slowly pulling his fingers through it. "Very un-Roman to have it so long, but I don't think I could bare to have you cut it."

"I like my hair," Aurelius mumbled.

"Mmhm…"

Hands shifted to the back of his neck. "Oh… That feels really good," he murmured, a silly little smile tilting his lips.

Rome chuckled. "Venus must've crafted you herself, such a beautiful thing you are. She gave you her hair, as gorgeous as any woman's."

His brow knitted faintly. "I'm not a girl."

"I know, I know; how could I forget?" Rome's hand shifted from neck to shoulders, slipping down to rest at his waist. Aurelius leaned back against the older nation, relaxed and content, and smiled up at him.

Rome smiled back, running his thumb along the sweep of his side-

"My turn, my turn!" Antonius shouted, his voice echoing through the chamber as he paddled over. Aurelius glared at him, he was _comfortable_, but Rome laughed and gently nudged him off his lap.

"It's only fair," he pointed out, getting more oil as Spain slipped into place. Aurelius huffed, taking a deep breath to float on his back.

"Yeah well, maybe I wasn't done," he pouted at the open sky.

"This is not the only bath in the world. I'll wash your hair again next time."

"Fine…" He dipped under the water and swim a short ways, stubbornly ignoring both territory and republic.

They left the bath shortly after Rome finished with Antonius's hair, and that night Iulius confirmed that they would be returning to the capital.

-o-

Finally we'll actually get to the capital! CaledoniaRoma reviewed with this question: "When he becomes an empire and no longer a republic will he become a darker character?" The answer to that is actually hinted at in this chapter, along with some other foreshadowing.

Next Monday is the update; as usual, feel free to question, comment, critique, or pass this story along to people you think will enjoy it! See you next chapter!


	19. The Capital

Rome was the most breath-takingly huge city Aurelius had ever seen. When they crested the hill north of the city and he got his first glimpse, he had no words to describe how fantastic the image was: a great metropolis sprawled over seven hills and the valleys between, shining white in the winter sunlight. He stared in dumbfounded awe, mouth agape, and finally dragged his gaze away to look at his father in disbelief.

"This, is _yours_?" he asked in disbelief.

Rome's grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt. "Yes. Welcome to Roma."

Aurelius was no better off for words as they entered the gates, especially because it seemed like the entire city turned out to greet them. Crowds of people packed along the stone-paved streets, pressed up as close as they dared to the marching soldiers. Flowers and tiny scraps of paper fluttered through the air, women darted out of the crowd to kiss men full on the mouth to the horrified scandal of their maids, and the cheers were deafening, exhilarating, a cacophony of voices. Rome kept his horse flush against Aurelius's, Antonius in his lap fairly bouncing from excitement, as they wound their way slowly through the streets, impossibly tall buildings framing their passage, more people leaning out from the windows, shouting praises on the rooftops and there were so many people, more people than Aurelius had ever seen in one place in his life, more people than an army, and the roads were never-ending, around every corner was yet more people, more fantastic buildings, statues taller than trees—

"Aurelius!" Rome shouted, leaning over on his horse. "Are you alright?"

"Fine!" he yelled back, voice breaking, eyes wide. His knuckles were white, gripping the reins like a lifeline.

"Just smile and wave!" Rome hollered. "They're happy to see you!"

Aurelius gave a shaky smile, forcing himself to sit straight in the saddle, and gave a small wave to the crowd, some of them waving strips of cloth in return. His eyes met with a little girl, not older than two, held in her nursemaid's arms. She laughed, shrieking, and frantically waved her red ribbon. Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

Finally they reached a wide circular space open to the air. The single legion that marched in with them spread out into the space, and the crowd instantly filled in behind them, around them, any place they could. Aurelius guided his horse to follow Rome and Iulius, cutting their way towards a tall stone platform in front of an impressively large columned building. They passed through a line of soldiers at the base of the platform, and beyond them the space was free of people. Aurelius let out a breath at the welcomed relief. Iulius and Rome both dismounted, so he did as well, handing the reins to a soldier before quickly going to Rome's side.

He was swept up in a rib-crushing hug almost immediately. "Papa, I can't breathe," he groaned.

The hug loosened a fraction. "Sorry. How are you?" he asked, voice raised to carry over the deafening crowd.

"I'm okay," Aurelius lied. He felt like he might pass out despite the cool weather. "There are _so many _people here."

"Yup! Close to a million, now," Rome reported proudly.

Aurelius blinked at him. "A- a _million_?" The number was mind-boggling, incomprehensible. A _million_ people? What did that even look like, a million people? "How- how many people are out there?" He gestured vaguely towards the crowd.

"In the Comitium? Eh, probably only a few thousand or so," Rome shrugged.

"Oh." Only a few thousand. He couldn't do it, couldn't fathom a million people. Over Rome's shoulder, he could see Iulius straightening his clothes; he had changed into his toga before they entered the city. Rome had teased the man, saying there was little point in pretending they weren't staging a coup, but Iulius had insisted on leaving his weapons aside. Rome had dressed Aurelius and Antonius in their best clothing too, slipping jeweled rings onto their fingers and pinning their cloaks with fibulas of gold. He felt decked in glory, tangible pieces of Rome's greatness bound up in his clothes, his jewels, his name.

"I'm ready," Iulius announced. "Marcus?"

The legatus nodded as well, and the commander's grey eyes shifted to Rome, who smiled and gestured to the stairs leading up the back of the platform. Iulius turned and started up them, and Rome set Aurelius on the ground, taking his hand on one side, Antonius on the other.

"Alright, boys, best behaviour," he instructed, leading them towards the stairs as well.

"Yes, Papa!" Antonius chirped, practically vibrating in place.

Aurelius dug his heels in frantically. "Wait, what are we doing?"

"We're going to stand on the Rosta while Iulius speaks," Rome answered, easily pulling him forward as he continued undeterred.

Stand on the platform. In front of all the people, _only_ a few thousand of them in a city of a million—"_No_," Aurelius balked, trying to tug his hand free, but Rome held fast, giving airy assurances as they scaled the steps that he'd be fine, he didn't have to say anything, they were just going to stand behind Iulius as a show of support and then they were on the platform.

A sea of people spread out before them, consuming every inch of open space, a colourful ocean of fabrics, whites and blues and reds and browns, flashes of gold and silver. The noise could not be contained. Rome led them to the middle of the stage, Aurelius's legs didn't want to move but he forced himself to walk, stiffly, haltingly, wide eyes locked on the huge undulating mass of people. Iulius was in front of them, closer to the edge, towering over those clustered at the base of the stage, Marcus his ever present shadow. He raised his hands, and the cheers quieted, the crowd settling to soft shifts and whispers.

"Romans! Countrymen!" Iulius began, his voice traveling over their heads. Aurelius imagined it reached all the way to furthest point of the Comitium. "Where are your Senators? Where are your leaders? They have fled, seeking to save their own lives, thinking they have left the great city of Rome to fall to an invading army! I ask you: where is this army? They stand among you! Brave, fearless soldiers, protectors of Rome, and the Senate would have you believe that I wish you harm! No, dear countrymen, I do not wish you harm. I wish to liberate you!" A roar of approval, so loud Aurelius swore the very stones beneath his feet trembled from the force of it. Iulius held up his hands once more and the sound died down. "I wish to liberate you from the tyranny of the Senate! A Senate so disconnected from the very people it is sworn to lead, that it would leave them defenseless!" Jeers now, people denouncing Pompey as a coward, a fool, a tyrant. "I will not let this be so! The Roman people deserve a true defender!"

"Gaius Iulius Caesar—dictator rei gerundae causa!" someone in the crowd shouted, and the call resounded, repeated by those around him, morphing into a chant: "Dictator! Dictator! Dictator!" Aurelius was certain he could feel it through the stone this time. He saw Iulius hesitate, a quick glance back at Rome; Aurelius looked up to see the republic beaming.

And so Iulius declared himself dictator of Rome for a term of one year, as the republic laughed softly to himself. Later he explained to Aurelius that only a consul could appoint a dictator, and with both consuls Gaius Claudius Marcellus Maior and Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Crus gone from the city to side with Pompey, it left Iulius as the only proconsul present; Claudius and Cornelius were declared _in absentia _to support Iulius's dictatorship.

Finally Iulius raised his hands another time and silence descended. Then he turned back towards them slightly, yielding the stage. Rome give Aurelius's hand a quick squeeze before walking them forward; the nerves that had begun to settle jolted back to agitated panic, and he clung to Rome's hand like the republic might disappear otherwise. Rome walked them to stand in Iulius's place, letting go of their hands to take a step in front of them.

"My people!" Rome called, arms outstretched as if to encompass everyone. His eyes were jubilant. "My people, sanctified by the gods, the life-giving force that moves the mightiest nation on earth!" Thunderous cheers, even louder that Iulius commanded; Rome waited for them to quiet. "I have the privilege to stand before you here, and announce my newest son!"

Aurelius's blue eyes mirrored the wide sky as the cry went up again; Rome put a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him forward, to the very edge of the platform. He could feel thousands of eyes upon him, and glanced down reflexively to see people crowded at his feet, their upturned faces open and curious. He trembled.

"Wave, Aurelius," Rome instructed, hand now resting on his shoulder. "They're cheering for you."

Aurelius waved, trying to smile, overwhelmed by sound and sight. Standing next to Rome, dwarfed by his height and his magnificence, Aurelius felt suddenly much smaller than his own height warranted. He was Rome's son, and now all these people knew it too—and he had no idea how he could ever live up to it.

-o-

They had dinner at Iulius's city house, a lavish two story building of white plaster with brilliantly painted walls, the floors a kaleidoscope of mosaics. Only Marcus was in attendance—the rest of the legatos understandably spent the night rediscovering the city, its virtues and vices. As it was, they drank their fair share of wine as well, and Aurelius listened to the adults celebrate and banter through a warm haze as he slouched back on the sofa, a goblet held loosely in his hands.

"Good gods, if only Pompey had been there!" Rome laughed. "I would've paid good money to see the look on his face when the people called for you to be dictator!"

Iulius failed to hide his grin in his wine. "The culmination of my career," he agreed, but Rome dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

"Ridiculous! You're bound for greater glory yet, I can feel it!"

A clatter—everyone glanced over to see Antonius dead asleep on the sofa, drooling onto the armrest, his goblet on the floor from where it slipped from his fingers. Rome smile affectionately. "I should get the little ones in bed," he said, picking Antonius up, resting the boy's head on his shoulder. "Come on, Aurelius."

"What? No, I'm not tired," he said quickly, straightening up in his seat—the world slide sideways a little bit and he shook his head.

Rome snorted. "Is that so? Well, given that you're _just a little bit_ drunk, I'm going to say that you find bed too."

"No…" he moaned, but he set his goblet on the table and followed Rome out as the republic called over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a bit."

Rome brought them to a guest bedroom and laid Antonius down on the bed, draping a linen sheet loosely over him. "Alright, into bed with you."

"I don't want to go to bed yet," Aurelius mumbled. His head felt stuffed full of cotton, but he wasn't _tired_, just… "Am I drunk?" he asked.

"A little," Rome said, picking him up. He wrapped his arms around the older nation and leaned his head against his. Papa was strong and steady, the even span of his breaths a comfort. He imagined he could count the pause between heartbeats; he wondered how long it would take him to reach a million. A million people, a million heartbeats… "Maybe, if you told me a story, I might be tired then."

Rome chuckled. "Well then, I'd best tell you a story so you can sleep."

So Rome rocked gently back and forth, telling him of Apollo and his lover Hyacinthus, whom Apollo tutored in all his sacred arts- archery, gymnastics, discus, music, divination. Aurelius could picture it in his head, Rome's whispered tale painting the picture how Zephyr, the West Wind, was also enamored of the youth, his jealousy of the sun god growing until one day as they practiced, Zephyr blew Apollo's discus off-course to strike Hyacinthus in the head. The mortal died in Apollo's arms and the god, thinking himself responsible for his lover's death, transformed his body into a flower, the hyacinth, which is still stained with Apollo's tears.

Aurelius offered no complaint as the story came to a close, only dimly aware of Rome setting him on the bed, stripping his clothes off and laying him down. His mind vaguely noted the bed shift as Rome sat on the edge by him, petting long soft touches down his back, fingertips trailing down the back of his legs. He hummed faintly, it almost tickled, but the bed was warm and comfortable and Rome's hand resting on his thigh seemed completely unremarkable, nothing to wake up for. Then it stopped; he felt a kiss pressed into his hair, and then Rome stole silently out of the room.

-o-

Over the next few days, Aurelius was introduced to a dizzy array of people: Iulius's wife Calpurnia, a severe-looking woman who radiated relief at the very sight of her husband; poets and playwrights, eagerly soaking up tales of Iulius's conquests; Iulius's nephew by the name of Gaius Octavius, who wore funny shoes with very thick soles to make himself taller. Imperator, legatus, and republic all were busy; Aurelius and Antonius followed at Rome's heels whenever possible, but they still regularly found themselves confined to Iulius's city house. They kept busy by swimming in the private bath and playing dice, when they weren't having lessons. Aurelius had moved into the more complicated part of politics, learning the ins and outs of Roman law and how the various levels of government officials interacted. The evenings oscillated between pleasant and tense—pleasant, when Rome discovered that Pompey, in his haste to flee the city, had left behind the _entire_ _treasury_; tense, when they realized the cost of furnishing an entire fleet of ships. But within a week, things began to find their rhythm, and Rome declared that since they had been so well-behaved, they would go to the Amphitheatre Scribonium to see a _munus_.

"Yes!" Antonius leapt to his feet. "How many pairs? Will there be a beast hunt? Who's the editor?"

Aurelius glanced between them, brow knitted. "What's a _munus_?"

"A fight!" his brother declared. "With the condemned and gladiators and vicious beasts and all kinds of stuff!"

Rome laughed. "Essentially. A _munus_ is a public show put on by a family in honour of their ancestors, usually someone who's recently died. They're very exciting; you'll see."

The amphitheatre was an impressively large wooden structure, open to the air, with an arena in the center. Ringing the walls were a series of successively higher seats; by the time they got there, most were already filled, but Rome led them to a blocked off section right by the arena, a few feet higher than ground level ("That's so lions or tigers can't get to us" Antonius informed him; Aurelius gave him an alarmed look.)

"Have a seat, boys," Rome gestured to the plush chairs, taking one for himself and adjusting his toga—it was so strange to seem him without armour! He popped a handful of dried fruit into his mouth from a bowl on a side table. "It's about to start."

A trumpet blast, and a cheer went up as the far gates open. Aurelius and Antonius scrambled onto the sofas to see the entrance procession, Rome listing off the participants as they entered: the bodyguards, carrying the bound fasces that symbolized power over death; trumpet players and images of the gods who would 'witness' the games; a scribe, and a man holding the palm branches to be giving to the winners. Then editor, charged with overseeing the matches; his assistants, bearing the weapons to be used in combat; and finally, the gladiators themselves, twenty or so men arrayed in various armour.

"Now the editor will inspect the weapons—there, you see? Short swords, tridents, nets, sabers—that one's gold-gilded he said? The weapons are the best part, save the actual fight, of course—an Egyptian kopesh, excellent!"

Aurelius was only half listening, watching the men stretch and warm up, taking empty jabs at the air. Now he understood what a _munus_ was—Mama had told him about them, she called them 'gladiator fights', when men were forced to kill each other for the amusement of the Romans. Sometimes, she said, a man wasn't given any weapons at all, no chance to win. All they could do was die. Aurelius didn't believe someone could be that cruel. When he was younger, he thought Rome could be, Mama told him, but he had lived with Rome for over a year now, and the republic wasn't cruel. At least, he wasn't cruel to him—he was his papa. It didn't make any sense, that the man who rocked him to sleep telling stories could be the same man gleefully explaining the ornately decorated weapons in eager anticipation of watching people kill each other. "Who are the gladiators?" he asked, not taking his eyes off them.

"Uh, where's the program? Here—ah there's a fighter from Nubia, that explains the kopesh. Ajjaji the Nubian; Caecilia; Gedeon; Marius; Adgenos—"

He straightened in his seat. "Adgenos?" A Gaulish name.

Rome nodded and continued listing off names, but Aurelius ignored them, eyes back on the gladiators, trying to pick out Adgenos from the crowd. "Who are gladiators?" he asked.

"I just told you—"

"No, I mean—who becomes a gladiator?"

"Oh. Slaves, mostly," Rome shrugged, unconcerned. "Every once in a while a Roman will enter in the hopes of winning fame and fortune. A lot of warriors who surrendered in battle—they rightly shouldn't be alive, but in the arena they can redeem themselves, either by winning, or by dying well. The entire point of a _munus_ is death—the beasts die, gladiators and the condemned die, and the family fulfills their duty to the dead." The crowd rose in a shout and Rome sat forward, excitement in his eyes. "They're starting!"

Aurelius turned back reluctantly, a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

They let the beasts out first, huge creatures Aurelius had heard about but never seen—the golden strength of a lion, the majesty of a tiger. Enormous cats, snarling and roaring and clawing, lunging for the barely armoured men. Aurelius found himself at the edge of his seat, eyes wide, heart racing to see a man pinned beneath those heavy paws with only a shield between him and death, shouting 'kill it!' his fearful voice lost in the roar of the crowd. One man, condemned to death, was set before two lions with only a small shield and a dagger—heart in his throat, Aurelius watched in horrified fascination as he was torn apart. Another man, foregoing the shield in favour of two swords, neatly decapitated his tiger with ecstatic approval of the crowd, Rome whooping with laughter, clapping. The corpses of the animals were dragged out of the arena, turning the sand a dusty red-brown in their wake.

Then the men paired off one by one; the editor announced them to the crowd, their homelands, their past victories. The crowd booed or cheered as they wished; the favourites were obvious. The Nubian man won his bout, pinning his opponent underfoot, turning to the editor's family in the box next to theirs. They gestured with thumbs down, so did Rome, and large sections of the crowd. Aurelius frowned, puzzled, and looked back to see the Nubian drive his sword through the fallen man's throat.

A single gesture, and death was decided.

As the dead man was carried off the field, the editor announced the next pair. "Adgenos of Gallia, captured by our imperator Gaius Iulius Caesar at the siege of Alesia! His opponent—"

Aurelius stood, hands on the wooden railing at the front of their box, eyes locked on the man. He didn't recognize him, it felt like he should. Another Gaul in the capital of the Roman Republic, who had also been at Alesia—one was in the arena, and one was in the stands. He was dressed in his own clothing, not Roman garb, to stress the differences between him and his Roman opponent. One in a clean linen tunic with light armour over his torso; the other in dark spun wool trousers, bare chested, with a golden torc at his throat. Marius took a shield and sword; Adgenos also choose a shield and spear.

"He'll have better reach with that," Rome commented, watching the men circle each other warily. "But gods help him if Marius closes that gap." Aurelius nodded, throat tight.

Adgenos lunged—Aurelius followed their movements with bright eyes, seeing openings, opportunities gained and lost, a quick jab skillfully intercepted. He was on his feet still, gripping the rail so tight his hands hurt but he barely noticed, shouting with the rest of the crowd, a collective gasp as Marius narrowly avoided being impaled. It was clear that Adgenos had the advantage, he wouldn't let Marius get within reach with his sword, harrying him with the spear—Marius dodged, batting the spear tip aside and stomping on it, chopping down with his blade—

"Yes!" Rome cried triumphantly as the spear head broke, fist in the air. "Kill him!"

Adgenos bolted for the weapons rack; Marius darted in front of him, sword ready. Aurelius was practically screaming, demanding Adgenos _move_, get a sword _go!_ Adgenos flipped the spear and swung it; Marius ducked, blocking with his shield and by the time he looked again Adgenos was on him. The crowd's calls grew even louder as the two toppled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and flashing steel, Rome leapt to his feet, yelling something but Aurelius didn't hear him over his own shrieks. They rolled, struggling to find an opening while not giving one, Adgenos's hand clamped like a vice on Marius's sword arm—the Roman slammed his shield up, jamming one of the spikes into his opponent's arm. Adgenos snarled, headbutted Marius straight between the eyes and for an instant, only an instant, he slackened—

It was enough. Adgenos yanked the sword free and reared back, driving it down with both hands-

Marius wrenched his shield loose and _up—_the sword point deflected down, biting deep into Adgenos's thigh. Marius gave him no time to recover, throwing his entire weight behind his shield, bucking the Gaul off and he went sprawling, sword flying aside-

"_No!_" Aurelius was nearly leaned over the railing-

Marius stamped his foot down on Adgenos's chest, leveling the sword at his face. He looked to the audience; Aurelius looked too, the editor's family with out-stretched thumbs turned down, and Rome—

"No, Papa, wait—"

And Rome tilted his thumb down; Marius stabbed his sword through Adgenos's throat.

Aurelius watched the body get dragged off the field. Behind him he could hear his family recounting the battle; it set his teeth on edge.

"Gods _damn_, that was a good fight!" Rome exclaimed, flopping back in his chair and grabbing a handful of fruit.

Antonius jumped up and down on his sofa, the thrill of combat fueling him like a fire. "Yes yes yes! That was so cool! I thought the other guy was gonna win—he got Marius's sword, I thought that was it, but then bam!" He jumped onto Aurelius's sofa, still bouncing. "Right in the leg! And then he went flying, he looked so surprised! Then _shink—_done! Straight in the throat—"

"Will you _shut up!_" Aurelius whirled and _shoved_—Antonius tumbled to the ground with an awful crack as his head collided with the edge of the table. Instantly he started howling and Aurelius flinched, guilt twisting his stomach as Rome leapt to his feet.

"Antonius! _Aurelius_, apologize to your brother!" he demanded, shooting Aurelius a harsh look that went straight through him.

Aurelius dropped his eyes to the ground, mumbling, "Sorry, Antonius."

"You're a jerk!" Antonius accused tearfully as Rome pulled him into his arms and check for bleeding.

"Antonius, no name calling," Rome countered without much force. "Well, you're not bleeding."

"It _hurts_."

"I bet it does. Aurelius, what was that for?"

He still didn't look up. "He was annoying me. And jumping on my sofa."

"So you tell him to _stop_, not almost crack his skull open," Rome scowled, standing with the little brunette in his arms.

"Yes, Papa."

"Papa, send Aurelius home!" Antonius insisted. "He was bad; he doesn't deserve to watch the rest of the games!" Aurelius's heart leapt.

The republic sighed. "Cassius, take Aurelius back to the house. No supper." The servant nodded, and Aurelius tried to look appropriately chastised as he followed Cassius out of the box.

"And Aurelius?"

He stopped, looking back.

"We are going to have a talk about this later."

Uh-oh. "Yes, Papa."

-o-

Night had fallen by the time Rome and Antonius returned from the _munus_. Aurelius heard them arrive downstairs; he tried to continue reading, but his focus drifted away from the story to the steadily burning oil lamp, his ears straining to make out their muffled voices. Then the voices faded, probably getting dinner he realized jealously, and his stomach grumbled its agreement. He forced himself to read.

He jumped slightly when the door creaked open.

"Sorry; didn't mean to startle you," Rome apologized, coming in.

Aurelius turned away from the table. "Where's Antonius?" _Your 'one worthy of praise'_…

"He's getting dinner." The republic came over, one hand on the table as he leaned over. "What are you reading?"

"Poems written by that poet you introduced me to last week; I forgot his name."

"Any good?"

"Yeah, they're good…" he trailed off, an awkward little silence unfolding between them. Rome waited as if hoping the blond would start, then sighed.

"Come sit with me, Aurelius."

He followed Rome to the bed, an uncomfortable knot in his stomach as he sat down beside the older nation, not looking at him as he picked nervously at his nails.

Rome started, "You said earlier that you pushed Antonius because he was annoying you. Is that true?"

"Yes," Aurelius replied sullenly.

"Is that the only reason?"

"Yes."

"Why were you upset?"

"He was being really loud and annoying and jumping on my sofa," he answered defensively.

"Were you upset before that?"

He fidgeted; he didn't like this. "I don't know."

"Were you upset before the _munus_?"

He hesitated. "Not really…"

"But you were upset when you pushed Antonius?"

"Yes."

"Did you like the _munus_?"

The fidgeting grew worse. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to understand. Did you like the _munus_?"

He bit his lip. "Sort of…"

"Was it exciting?"

"… Yes."

"Was it scary?"

"Yes."

"Did you like the _munus_?"

"Not really."

"Did watching it make you upset?"

"Yes."

"What in it made you upset?"

"Everything."

"The trumpet music made you upset?"

Aurelius giggled very slightly. "No."

"So not everything. Did the fighting make you upset?"

He nodded. Rome asked, "Did seeing the Gallic fighter die make you upset?"

"Yes…"

"Do you think that dying in battle is an honourable death?"

"Yes."

"Do you think surrendering to an enemy is honourable?"

"No."

"So if given the choice, you would rather die in battle than surrender to the enemy?"

Aurelius hesitated, glancing away towards the oil lamp. "I guess…"

"The Gallic warrior surrendered at Alesia. You agree that surrender is dishonourable. Today he died in battle. You agree that dying in battle is better than surrendering. Yes?"

"But—but it's not the same!" Aurelius protested.

"Why not?"

"That wasn't an actual battle; they were fighting, like people would go to the theatre. Like it was a game. War isn't a game," he answered, shoulders hunching defensively.

"Do you play war games with your wooden soldiers?"

"Nobody dies then, it's not the same!"

"Answer, Aurelius," Rome said gently, but he shook his head, scooting back on the bed.

"No, I don't like this," he grumbled, tucked his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. His insides felt twisted up; he didn't know if it would be better to run or scream or pull out his hair. Rome shifted back on the bed as well, draping an arm around Aurelius's shoulders and tucking him against his side. Aurelius resisted, then untensed a little bit, letting his shoulders drop. "I don't like it," he repeated quietly.

"I know, Aurelius, I know," Rome soothed. "I'm sorry it upset you. You'll grow accustomed to it soon enough."

The thought made him cringe. "No, I won't."

"You grew accustomed to me," the republic pointed out with a smile.

Aurelius huffed. "That's different." But he didn't argue further, just remained leaning against Rome's side, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Rome pet his hair for a few minutes and his eyelids began to droop; when Rome straighten, Aurelius laid out on the bed, yawning. Rome kissed him good night, and blew out the lamp.

His dreams were bright sunlight and red, fierce lions, his mother fighting, killing to the cheers of a crowd, Rome gesturing with a downturned thumb, his mother dragged out of the arena, her long golden hair trailing through the bloody sand.

-o-

A week late; my apologies. My grandmother passed away last week, so my time and ability to write got shot to hell. But I'm back, with an extra long chapter! Next Monday is the update; as usual, feel free to question, comment, critique, or pass this story along to people you think will enjoy it! See you next chapter!


	20. Impatience and Consequences

"A war camp is no place for children."

"I lived in one for a year."

"Asian battles are dangerous."

"So were the battles in Gaul. I actually got kidnapped there."

"I can't spare men to babysit you."

"Cassius isn't a soldier!"

"The answer is _no, _Aurelius."

He crossed his arms. "You just hate me, don't you."

"_What_—" Rome started, twisting around in his desk chair to face the blond child.

"You're sick of me and want to leave me behind!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"You'd take _Antonius_ with you if he asked. Your 'one worthy of praise'."

"I'm not taking either of you!"

"So you hate Antonius now too? Did you tell him?"

"I don't hate either of you!"

"Mama let me go with her—"

"Your mother was an uncivilized Gaul; I'm raising you better than that," Rome quipped, trying to turn back to his work.

Aurelius pressed further. "Is that what you call abandonment? Raising me better—?"

"_Enough!_" The vase shattered on impact with the floor, jarring Aurelius into silence. Rome's shoulders quivered like a plucked string as he took a breath and let it out.

"Aurelius, go to your room. _Now_."

Aurelius slipped away, avoiding the pottery shards on tip-toes. When things broke, he had pushed too hard. He wanted to be left behind in the capital like he wanted no supper for a month. He didn't dislike the city, despite its size and crowds. But it was easier to navigate with Rome, his feet carrying him to their destination without effort. Aurelius had to think about it, or trust some unknown servant to guide him. Having Papa was safer, even in war. He didn't know why Papa had decided already. The fleet wasn't even done, and Iulius wasn't about to march to Asia Minor. Not if he wanted to avoid dragging neutral countries into the fray on Pompey's side. Rome had considered it though—"it's an option, if necessary. There's no force in range of us that can withstand an invasion." His certainty was jarring; Aurelius wondered when he would have that confidence.

Antonius poked his head out his bedroom door when Aurelius entered the hallway. "I heard him yell."

Aurelius didn't bother to spare him a glance as he passed. "He's leaving us behind when he goes after Pompey."

"What? _Why?_"

"Obviously he doesn't like us," Aurelius replied, opening the door to his own room.

"You're a liar!"

"Ask Papa."

Antonius's footsteps pounded away, fading to silence. Aurelius sat with his back to the closed door and waited, listening. Papa refused to listen to reason, so now he'd have to deal with Antonius's inconsolable wailing. Let him talk his way out of that mess.

Sure enough, after fifteen minutes of picking at his nails, the siren call of his brother not getting his way filtered into his ears, spiraling into a crescendo of discontent over which Rome failed to be heard. Aurelius heard Rome open the opposite door, then close it—the howling lessened a fraction.

"_Ow-_" he winced as the door jammed into his back.

"Get out of the way, Aurelius-"

He clambered to his feet, facing the door as Rome entered.

"Aurelius, don't provoke your brother," the republic sighed.

His arms returned to their familiar position across his chest. "_I _didn't provoke him. _You_ decided to leave us behind—"

"For the last time, it's for your own safety!" Rome's gesture swept over the room.

"I hear you can't convince Antonius of that either," Aurelius raised his voice to be heard over a fresh chorus of wailing.

Rome opened his mouth, then stopped. "I will explain to your brother that you're using him."

"Yes, and still insist that he stay behind." Brown eyes narrowed and Aurelius smirked. "He'll probably sulk for the next few months."

"You are not allowed to play politics against your father," Rome pointed, frowning.

"Oops," Aurelius smiled.

Rome turned away, profile stern as his eyes wandered. "I will ask Iulius what he thinks of this. Until then, if you tell Antonius that I hate him—"

"—his words, not mine," Aurelius defended with upheld hands.

"—I will feed you to the lions."

The boy rolled his eyes.

-o-

Rome let them come. Iulius's impatience sent them off early with only enough ships to ferry half the men across the Adriatic, with Marcus overseeing the rest until the fleet returned. They arrived, sent the ships off and made camp—and that night Iulius and Rome stood on the beach cliffs and watched the storm smash the fleet against the rocks.

"We are outnumbered," Rome noted, lying on the sofa with his heels propped on the arm rest. Iulius didn't respond, forehead bowed to his fists as he hunched in his chair. Aurelius sat next to Antonius and pushed his dinner around the plate.

"Marcus will come soon though," the Hispanic declared with a smile. Rome covered his face with his hands and the smile faded. "No?"

"There aren't more ships," Rome mumbled from behind his fingers. "Unless Marcus crafts an army's worth of wax and feather wings, it will take months before they reach us."

Silence. Aurelius buried his stuffed dormice under their lettuce bed and wished they didn't have their eyes still. "How close is Pompey?"

"Close enough," Rome growled, fixing his glare on the canvas ceiling. "Iulius, we should have waited."

Iulius didn't look up. "I know."

"I mean, given your lineage, it was ridiculous to think Neptune would allow a move as cocky as splitting the army across the sea-"

"I _know_, Romulus."

"How long until Pompey comes after us?" Antonius asked, his question cutting across the tent. Rome and Iulius exchanged glances.

"Pompey is likely too busy building alliances with various Asian and African powers to attack within the month," the republic stated.

"So after that then."

"It's… hard to say."

"He doesn't know," Aurelius clarified, tucking his knees up to his chest.

Rome looked at him for a long minute. "Wishing you were in the capital?"

"No," Aurelius answered, and hugged his knees tighter.

-o-

From the highest cliff along the sea line, Rome pointed out the location of Pompey's camp on the other edge of the horizon. Aurelius could make out the thin streams of smoke from thousands of fires and nothing else. Every day he trained with Rome and the soldiers, and climbed the cliffs at dusk to look at the smoke, waiting for it to inch closer.

"What's Marcus doing?" he asked, gaze unfocused over the sea.

He heard Rome stop next to him. "Presumably building more ships."

The sun slipped deeper into the water by the second, the sky golden. The sea breeze was beginning to reverse, warm lazy gusts coming in off the water. "What happens if Pompey attacks before Marcus gets here?"

"We fight."

"If we lose?"

Rome watched the last sliver of sun vanish into the sea. "If Iulius is captured, the war's essentially done. Marcus may or may not surrender; he might continue fighting. But Iulius is the driving force."

"What happens to us?"

The republic glanced at him. "Nothing."

Aurelius tore his eyes away from the fading sunlight. "Nothing?"

"This is an internal affair. Unless Pompey has made stupid deals with his foreign allies, there's no reason to think that you or Antonius would be affected. No more so than the rest of us."

Relief scuffled with the disappointment of not being important and won. "What about you?"

Rome hummed, ruffling sea-tossed blond hair. "You let me worry about that."

-o-

"Marcus landed!"

Aurelius clutched the edge of the bed as Rome flailed awake, kicking the blankets off of all of them. "What? _Where?"_

Iulius's face was grim. "Half way betwixt here and Pompey."

Rome swore, stumbling out of bed for his armour. "Break camp, now—we've got to reach him before Pompey—"

The trumpets cut him off, summoning the men to their posts. Iulius gave a tight smile and left.

They went at a forced march. The tension kept Aurelius wound up and unable to ride correctly; the constant trot left bruises. Rome stayed quiet, eyes darting ahead, urging multiple scouting expeditions. He overheard a soldier complaining about the pace and asked in clipped tones if the man had a preference for defeat. The cloud of coiled pressure he and Iulius generated when within five feet of each other choked the pleasure out of dinner; Aurelius ate sitting in the dirt outside the tent, staring at the sky.

From inside, he heard:

"Papa, will we reach Marcus before Pompey?"

"Don't ask me that again."

-o-

Iulius and Marcus clasped arms, identical grins splitting their features. "I can't believe that worked."

"Pompey hung back," Marcus explained, breath short. "He thought we were hoping to trap him between us."

Aurelius frowned. "So he would've made it here first."

Rome clapped a hand on his shoulder, jarring the frown loose. "Son, when your enemy hands you victory from a bad decision, you do not question it." He stopped, focus slipping as it did whenever he considered a memory. "Unless it's a trap."

Antonius bounced on the balls of his feet, arms in the air, asking as Rome scooped him up, "Is this a trap, Papa?"

"No, I don't think so. This is Fortuna."

They planned their battle that night, with Aurelius and Antonius drifting around the maps like curious ghosts. Rome petted Aurelius's hair absently, reminding the child that he was still part of their world even if the republic was fixed on war and glory and tearing his future in half down the middle. The sea breeze was just enough to keep off the oppressive heat of Quintilis, which Rome assured him was better and worse farther south, in Africa—worse, because it was hotter; better, because it was as dry as bleached bones.

They dug in by the city of Dyrrhachium; Pompey had his back to the sea and they ringed him in, preventing his advance but not his escape. Rome watched Pompey's fleet come and go with supplies, while their own soldiers crawled over the bare countryside and came back with scraps.

"He can't keep doing this indefinitely. He'll run out of water and fodder," Rome groused, prowling the siege walls.

Aurelius stabbed at an invisible enemy and imagined Pompey, a faceless Roman he had never seen. "Why are we waiting?"

"You need a five to one numerical superiority to break a siege. Resistors always have the advantage. The hills make direct assault impossible. We aren't waiting; we're chipping away at his defenses."

"Oh." He hacked off invisible Pompey's arms, then his head. "I hate sieges."

"I know."

-o-

They were having lunch when the messenger arrived.

"Praepositus, two Gallic cavalrymen have defected."

Aurelius's stomach dropped to his shoes as the room froze. Antonius gave him a wide-eyed look, the ubiquitous _you're in trouble_ expression.

Rome set aside his utensils with a soft click as he stood. "Why?"

"They were caught stealing pay from the legion."

"Thieves and traitors," he sighed, reaching for his cloack. Antonius and Aurelius slipped off the sofa, moving for their own short cloaks, but Rome held up a hand. "No, Aurelius; you stay here with Cassius."

"I didn't do it!" he blurted. Papa couldn't think it was his fault, he was on their side.

Rome fussed with his fibula. "Obviously. Stay with Cassius. Antonius, come."

The tent flap fluttered shut. Aurelius bit his lip. "Cassius, Papa doesn't blame me, right?"

The servant shrugged. "It's impossible to say what the praepositus is thinking."

Aurelius sat down, slumped into the cushions. "Why can't this ever happen to Antonius? Why does he only ever doubt me?"

"He would be a strange father if he never doubted his children."

"Doubt their strength, maybe, but their loyalty?" He shouldn't be so surprised though. He paid attention during his lessons; he knew Rome's legal code. The harshest punishments were reserved for patricide. The head of the household's power was absolute; to break that order through murder was unacceptable. Betraying the army to the enemy would also result in death, but not the same tortuous experience leading up to it. Aurelius sunk deeper into the plush seat. "I'm not like them, the cavalrymen. I'm on our side."

"And no one believes this more than the praepositus," Cassius said.

"I hope so…"

A heavy fog settled over dinner; Rome spoke very little, and Aurelius even less. Papa was watching him, he just knew it, searching for signs of betrayal. He wouldn't find any, but gods it made him squirm. He curled up next to the older nation in bed that night with no hesitation, but even with Rome's heartbeat drumming away against his cheek, the distance stretched between them.

Pompey's forces attacked the next day, targeting an unfinished section of the siege wall. Rome threatened to beat them if they left the tent without an armed escort, so they remained inside, listening to the sounds of pitched battle less than a thousand feet away. Not knowing what was happening grated on Aurelius's nerves. Everything Antonius did—the way he ate lunch, how he held his pen, his heaving sighs, the fidgeting—wore at him until he threw himself at Cassius's feet, pleading to be walked around the camp, to Iulius's tent and back, something, anything, before he tried to hurt Antonius and made Papa even more furious at him. Cassius declined, citing orders, and Aurelius laid face down on the bed and cried.

Rome trudged back after dusk, dropping his helm on the floor and collapsing onto the sofa, batting Antonius away when the boy tried to climb into his lap.

"No, not now," he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face, spreading the soot streaks further. His cuirass was crusted with blood and grime, none of it his.

Aurelius edged over, eyes sharp for warning signs. "Are we winning?"

"Only because Pompey is paranoid and Iulius clever. The victory would have been the enemy's, were there any men among them to take it." He cracked his neck, straightening as he began to pry off his armour. "But victory from bad decisions, right, boys? Pompey has evidently decided that the two Gallic cavalrymen were sent as a ploy to lure him into destruction, so he didn't take what legitimately was a clear opening and withdrew. Fine by me," he scowled, letting the armour drop to the ground with a clatter.

"So… It was a good thing the men defected?" Aurelius asked.

Rome gave him a look so cold he wanted to fall into the fire. "No, Aurelius. It wasn't."

He mumbled an apology and kept his eyes on the ground for the rest of the night.

The battle left Iulius in a better mood, though his fleeting smiles were more restrained than usual. The days dragged by as the two men and their nation plotted their next steps. They cheered when a missive came informing them of Curio's victory against Pompey's allies in Utica, only to mourn when it was immediately followed by news of a crushing defeat that took the general's life.

"Curio was a good man," Iulius said, staring at the letter before looking up. Aurelius saw shadows chasing circles in his eyes. "I have few allies to lose."

Rome's gaze was determined. "So we will make new ones."

In a few months' time, the words would sound like a prophecy.

-o-

I have returned! The Roman Civil War is trying to kick my butt, guys. There's only so many times I can subject you to 'they went here, siege for a few weeks/months- then over there, also siege for a few weeks/months". Ancient warfare has long lag times between interesting things. But~ Next chapter hits some _very_ interesting stuff. (I can't promise when the next chapter will post, I'm aiming for within two weeks.)

Feel free to leave comments, critiques, and questions! Also, if you like this fic and think you know others who might as well, please pass it along via the social media tool of your choice~ See you soon!


	21. Battle and Battery

Aurelius stayed close to Rome as they cut through the camp, dodging soldiers the legions prepared to assemble. Pompey had mirrored their movements, forcing them into progressively more hostile Greek territory. Now they were pinned down outside of Thessaly, no access to allies, dangerously low on supplies, and with no escape route in sight. He kept to Rome's heels as they entered Iulius's tent, standing at hand with the legatii crowded around the table.

"What's the count?" Rome asked, cutting past pleasantries.

"110 cohorts, three lines ten men deep," Iulius answered, watching Marcus lay out the corresponding figures on the map. "He has double our numbers, and he's playing it safe."

"That's because he doesn't want to fight. He'd rather starve us out," a legatus grumbled. The others murmured in agreement.

Aurelius tugged on Rome's hand. "Papa, how does Pompey have double the men? We have seven legions."

"They're not at full strength." Rome didn't look down, pulling his hand loose. "Pompey's allied with most of Greece, so we can't replenish our ranks here."

"I thought Greece was your son too—" He clamped his mouth shut as Rome shot him a glare and turned his attention back to the map.

Iulius set up more units, explaining, "To match the length of his lines, we can only stand six men deep. We have the river to our right, which is where the cavalry will go."

"Pompey's cavalry outnumbers ours seven to one, they'll smash right through that—" someone started, and Iulius held up a hand.

"Not when it's reinforced. Once we're arrayed, I'll give the order to thin the ranks to form a fourth line behind the cavalry as reinforcements."

Even Marcus pulled back, surveying the map with a grim expression. "That's risky," he ventured.

"Yes, and Pompey has every advantage." Rome leaned over the table, arms braced on the edge. "Old blood, old family, urged on by old senators. He doesn't understand the value of a gamble."

"What if he does?" Aurelius cringed as every eye in the room swiveled to him. He pushed on. "What if Pompey doesn't fight like normal?"

The legatii glanced at each other; Rome straightened. "We'll deal with that if we have to."

"If Pompey routes our cavalry, we will lose," Iulius clarified. Rome shot him a look too, but the general continued undeterred. "The loses we incurred at Dyrrhachium were substantial, and we do not have enough supplies to wait him out, or to keep marching. If we don't win, we will die. My men will not fail me, or themselves." The legatii nodded, and Aurelius felt his shoulders drop a fraction even as his stomach twisted. Even though it wasn't, Dyrrhachium still felt like his fault.

Iulius rattled off the legion assignments for the legatii, giving Rome a high rank in the cavalry. Iulius and Marcus commanded the left and right back legions, from which they could survey the field and give orders as necessary. As they went over last minute strategies to prevent the lines from collapsing, Aurelius edged away from the table. The battle would take place in the field just beyond the camp; it'd be like Dyrrhachium all over, huddled in the tent with the sounds of dying men in the distance, jumping at every roaring charge, hoping none of the screams were Rome. Better to be on the battlefield.

He paused. Rome had his back to him, focused on the legatii, gesturing in precise, clipped movements as he debated troop movement. Aurelius licked his lips and snuck out, hurrying back to their tent.

Antonius leapt to his feet when he entered. "Where's Papa?"

"Still at the meeting." Aurelius went straight to the chest at the foot of the bed, heaving up the lid and pulling out his armour. His brother came to his side.

"What're you doing?"

He almost said 'nothing'. "Getting ready." Buckling the cuirass on himself was close to impossible and he waved Cassius over, handing it to him.

Antonius moved in front of him, frowning. "Getting ready for what?"

"What does it look like, stupid?" he snapped, fumbling with the vambraces as the cuirass tightened. He grabbed his belt and dagger next, leaving the training sword in the chest. He'd have to find a different one.

His brother gaped. "You're going to _fight?_"

He nodded as Cassius strapped on the shin guards. Fully armoured, battle felt more real, more certain.

"You're certain this is what your father wishes?" Cassius asked as he stood.

Papa would flay him if he found out. "Yes. Cassius, run to fetch me a proper sword and—" He was too short to march with a legion on foot, he'd never keep up during the charge. But Papa was commanding the cavalry… "and my horse."

"Why don't I get to fight?" Antonius wailed.

"You're too small." Aurelius followed Cassius to the tent flap and peeked out. No sign of Papa. He turned back.

Antonius balled his fists. "I'm almost as big as you."

"Almost," Aurelius sneered. If Antonius said anything about this to Papa… But he'd go straight to the field from the meeting. Hopefully.

"I'm going to fight too!" Antonius rushed over to the trunk, dragging out his own armour.

Aurelius grabbed him. "No, you can't—Papa said if you misbehaved now, you'll have to wait three more battles before he'd let you fight."

"That's not fair!" The nationling threw a shoulder guard at him; he side-stepped without difficulty and missed Cassius by inches.

"Your horse is outside," he saluted, and held out a sheathed short sword. Aurelius took it, thanking him. The sword seemed heavier than his training sword, which couldn't be right; the only difference was the sharpness of the blade. He loosed the blade from the scabbard a few inches—the iron gleamed, freshly polished, and he could see tiny nicks on the edge, scars from previous battles. Maybe that's why it felt heavier; it had cleaved souls from bodies in the past. He clicked it back into place, attaching it to his belt before looking back to Cassius and nodding.

Antonius followed him outside to the horse, watching as Cassius lifted up the boy to mount. "You'll come back?"

Cassius deposited him securely in the saddle and darted back into the tent. He took the reins, sitting tall. "Of course I'll come back."

The Hispanic boy shifted from foot to foot. "I don't want to be alone."

A stab of guilt jabbed him in the gut and he glanced towards Iulius's tent. "Cassius will be with you."

"It's not the same…"

Said servant reemerged from the tent before Aurelius could answer and held out the child's helmet. A horn blared. His heart leapt to his throat and he snatched the helmet away. "I'll be back soon!" Their replies were muted by the helm sliding into place over his ears, and he nudged his horse into motion, heading for the gate.

His mare melded into the river of horses. His breath caught at the sight of every red commander's cloak, but it was impossible to tell which was Papa. None looked behind them. He followed the lead of the other equites; they dwarfed him, shielding him from view. As they rode onto the plain, the mass condensed into ranks—he fit into an empty space and knew this plan wouldn't have worked if they were at full strength. The number of gaps was alarming. The equites called to each other as they fell in, dares and blessings; the man next to him shouted something to a fellow man-at-arms, and Aurelius swiveled in his saddle, blurting:

"You're Gaulish!"

The man blinked. "You can't possibly be an equites yet."

Aurelius flushed to his ears. "I am!"

He received a hard look in return. "What's your name, boy?"

His mouth opened with 'Aurelius' on his tongue and said, "Maponos."

"Tennos," the Gaul grunted. "I'm sure you're not supposed to be here, Maponos, and more confused by where the hell you came from, but stick by me and I'll keep you alive as best I can."

Keep him alive. There was a legitimate chance he could be killed. He licked his lips, mouth dry, and nodded. His thanks were drowned out by another trumpet blast. The equites brought their horses to a stop, a hush settling over the crowd. Aurelius saw Iulius and Papa ride to the front and shifted his horse two steps to the side, putting a man in his line of sight to the commanders. Just in case.

He couldn't make out most of Iulius's speech, the helmet still muffling sound. In the far distance he could see Pompey's men lined up opposite them, and the tall mass by the river, the enemy cavalry. He could tell from here that they outnumbered them. The Gaulish men around him were armed with lances; he hadn't thought to grab one. He put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Fighting from horseback wasn't something he learned with the Tenth Legion, just infantry drills. He felt his palms sweating. The river flowed towards camp; if he fell in, it'd carry him straight back.

The men roared and he jumped, his horse shying. He pulled the mare back in line and saw Papa riding to the front of the equites, taking position by the banner. Another trumpet blast, and the legions lurched forward into a quick march, the cavalry at a brisk trot. His heart picked up tempo with the hooves around him. Ahead he saw Papa's red cloak snap in the wind, the matching plumb bobbing along with his horse's gait, and knew it was ridiculous to worry that Papa would spot him. A single rider in a sea of horses? He would need eyes like an eagle to find him. The thought should've been a relief; with the gap between the two armies closing, it was terrifying. He shot a look at Tennos, but the man's attention was fixed forward on the enemy. Aurelius looked back; they still seemed far away.

Ahead the banner dipped; the horses slowed, and he pulled back on the reins as well, brow knitted in confusion as they came to a stop. The men shifted in their saddles, murmuring; Aurelius strained to see around the larger bodies and saw the legatus from the front center legion was conferring with Papa, heads bowed, gesturing towards Pompey's forces. Now that the charge was halted, Aurelius could see that the enemy hadn't advanced at all.

Papa shouted a command but he missed it. Leaning over in his saddle, he asked, "Why did we stop?"

"Rest and regroup," Tennos grumbled.

"Why?"

"How should I know?"

Aurelius glanced over the plain. They had covered about half the distance to Pompey, uphill… The infantry was reorganizing, reforming their lines and setting down their heavy shields. Pompey's army still wasn't moving, not trying to take advantage of their halt. Messengers went among the legions; Aurelius scanned the area but couldn't spot Iulius. The pause left him uneasy, even though his pulse settled to roughly normal. He had time to think. He fiddled with his belt, repositioning the dagger and hoping he wouldn't need it.

A trumpet blast pulled them back to attention. His throat tightened as he sat up in the saddle, white knuckles on the reins.

"Maponos." Tennos stared at him, pale eyes sharp. "Epona rides with you. Stick close."

He nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Another distant order, echoed back by the legatus; he heard Papa—

"Forward, march!"

They urged the horses into a trot again; Pompey's forces loomed closer, closer. A second command—the infantry broke into a run. Aurelius boggled to see the lines hold form, everyone keeping abreast. In front of them, Pompey's men set their shield wall, spears and swords jutting out like thorns. Aurelius held his breath as the two lines smashed together, screams and yells tearing the air—

"Maponos, eyes forward!" Tennos shouted. At the head of the column, Rome gave an order, drawing his sword; Aurelius followed suit as the equites lowered their lances, kicking their horses into a gallop. He gripped the reins with one hand, sword ready, the thunder of hooves deafening, driving out all thought, Pompey's equites were charging—

The Pompeiian forces crashed into their lines; chaos erupted. A horse stumbled sideways into his; he dropped the reins, clutching the pommel, and saw the incoming blade just in time to bat it away with his sword—the impact jarred his arm, numbing his fingers. He swung, missed, ducked another sword. He couldn't see Tennos. A surge of horses bodily lifted his, carrying them backwards several feet as his knees squeezed the saddle tight. Hooves found traction, launching him into one of Pompey's men, lanced raised—he hacked down, knocking the lance aside, sword snapping back without thinking. A spray of warmth splattered across his helm and cuirass as the man toppled backwards off his horse and disappeared under the pounding hooves.

Something slammed into his back, pitching him forward onto the mare's neck; his sword flew from his hand. He shoved himself upright, wheeling his horse around in time for a lance to bite deep into the horse's chest—it reared and he threw himself clear as it crashed to the ground, rolling from another set of trampling hooves. He scrambled to his feet, he didn't see his sword; a hand landed on the scruff of his neck and hauled him into the air, throwing him across a saddle, the pommel driving the air from his lungs into a pained groan. He twisted, trying to push himself up, he couldn't he his own shouts over the sounds of dying men and horses, trumpets blaring. He fumbled for his dagger and jammed it into his captor's leg, wedging into the gap between shin guard and armoured skirt. An iron-banded glove cracked into the back of his head and his vision winked out, dagger slipping from his grip. The rider jerked, horse lurching beneath them, and his stomach flew to his throat in the vertigo—his wrist crunched, pinned under him against the churned up ground, and something heavy collapsed on him, grinding him and his wrist deeper into the earth. He heard himself scream, high and short, the air in his lungs fleeing as his armour crumpled under the unyielding weight. He blinked, stamping hooves and still bodies swimming back into view, Gaulish boots mere inches from his face. He tried to free his arm, hand clawing the churned up ground for purchase and finding none. He couldn't breathe, the pain was blinding, darkness crawling into his vision; his head thunked to the ground, the metal helm digging into his cheek, and the sounds of battle faded into nothing.

-o-

Rome peeled away from the returning cavalry, steering his horse towards his tent. He'd have to report to Iulius soon and recap his experience of the battle, but all he wanted to do at the moment was take a nap. His whole body ached, the direct result of Romans killing Romans. He saw Labenius during the chaos, Iulius's former commander of the Tenth. Some twenty men stood between them though, so the traitor survived, to his knowledge. Impressive by anyone's account, on both sides. Pompey's cavalry ploughed through his ranks just as predicted, and Rome could kiss Iulius for the foresight to station a fourth infantry line as backup. Still, it was brutal; he was glad to be done with it.

Antonius latched onto his leg the moment he entered the tent. "Papa, you're back! Where's Aurelius?"

"What?" His eyes swept over the space—he presumed the boy had returned to the tent. They went straight to ranks after the meeting, he didn't have time to double check—"Where is he?"

"He said he was fighting—"

"_What_." He whirled to face Cassius. "Did you know he was planning this?"

Cassius wouldn't look at him, eyes on the dirt. "I thought it was what you wished—"

"What _I _wished—" Fury choked him. He lunged and caught the servant by the collar, fist colliding with his jaw hard enough that his legs gave out. Rome held him up, snarling, "Gods preserve you should he be lost." He threw Cassius down, storming out of the tent—Antonius scrambled out of his way as he passed. Leaping onto his horse, he shouted orders to the nearest soldiers, organizing a search, then wheeled around and galloped out of the camp.

The battle plain was bathed in fading gold from the setting sun. The dead were still lying where they fell, clumped together to mark pockets of intense fighting. The line where six of Iulius's cohorts attacked Pompey's flank was thick with bodies, most of them Pompeiian, but the river was lined with the huge forms of horses, dwarfing the equites themselves. Men from either side were moving among the corpses, beginning the long process of searching for the wounded, tending to the dead. Rome went to them; none had seen a young blond boy. At least, not yet.

If he were in Aurelius's place, how would he sneak into the battle? What legion? Rome's gaze crawled slowly over the field, picturing the layout in his mind. He'd avoid legions led by those most likely to recognize him at a glance. The equites, the legion under Iulius, and the legion under Marcus: out. A center position in any remaining legion would be ideal to avoid detection, given his height—no… Aurelius couldn't keep up with the legion in a full charge. He'd seen as much, when the boy practiced with the Tenth.

He frowned, turning his horse towards the river. Aurelius couldn't have snuck into his own damn unit, could he? He slowed, weaving his way among the death, eyes on the ground. Most of his casualties were here, mostly Gauls—he chilled.

"Aurelius!" he kicked his horse faster. Of course Aurelius went to the equities. Couldn't keep up with a legion, so he'd opt to be surrounded by his former people. He wondered if it was even a conscious decision. A man ahead, dead now, sitting on the ground, propped against his mount, arm flung aside as if to guard—a glint of blond.

He shouted to the men across the field as he jumped down, wedging his shoulder against the beast, heaving. "Aurelius!" The boy wasn't moving; Rome's heart pounded against his ribs and he shoved the horse up, but couldn't maneuver Aurelius free simultaneously. The men joined him; they braced the horse up and Rome twisted, ignoring the groans of the men as they bore the horse's full weight. He grasped Aurelius under the shoulders—"Lift higher!"—and dragged him free, turning him over. His dented cuirass was splattered with blood, his wrist swollen like a tree limb. He tugged the helmet off and the rest of his golden hair spilled out, his face was intact, his wide eyes glassy. "Fuck—" He cradled Aurelius in his arms, ear to his chest, and sucked in a sharp breath.

"No, come on, Aurelius…" He pressed two fingers to his neck, praying. The boy had been crushed, but now that he was free... The seconds dragged by like hours; Rome felt sick, he could feel the pitying eyes of his men on him as he knelt in the filth, son clutched to his chest. No, could a young territory really fall so easily? A weak flutter under his fingertips, then another—a flinched shot through Aurelius's body and a high whine escaped him.

"_Oh thank gods,"_ Rome gushed, folding Aurelius against him in a tight hug. The boy whimpered, unmoving, and he relented. "Oh my son, what were you thinking?"

Aurelius whined again, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted in a grimace, his good hand hovering over the battered cuirass. Rome kissed his forehead and stood, holding him like a bride. He saw the dead Gaul, sprawled on the ground where the men had knocked him aside, and nodded a small salute. "Note to me his name later," he instructed the others, before catching his horse's reins and walking back to camp.

Aurelius's injuries weren't as severe as they could have been. The blood stains weren't his, but both his wrist and a few of his ribs were broken. The greatest victory was simply having Aurelius alive. So long as he was alive, he would recover. Rome got him cleaned up, bandaged, and resting, sending Antonius to Marcus's ten with Cassius as an escort. He'd have to deal with the servant, but first, Aurelius.

He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down, gaze lingering on the heavy wrapping around the boy's wrist and chest. Aurelius shifted, wincing, and sighed.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Rome remarked, reaching for the wine goblet.

Aurelius nodded. "How long do I have to stay in bed?"

"Until you can take a full breath without cringing." He gingerly helped him sit up, holding the goblet for him to drink before letting him sink back into the sheets, eyes shut. "What possessed you to do that?"

Aurelius glanced at him and away, mumbling, "I wanted to help."

"You're not going to help anyone at your size and skill." Aurelius's cheeks coloured and Rome added, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. But during a battle, every man must be able to hold his own. You simply can't do that yet."

Aurelius said something under his breath; Rome leaned in. "What was that?"

"I killed someone."

His jaw dropped. "In the battle?" When Aurelius nodded, Rome straightened, trying not to grin. Damn it, he was supposed to be annoyed at the child, not pleased. "How do you feel?"

Hesitation clouded Aurelius's face. "I… Proud? It was scary. I didn't really think about it."

"You did well," Rome assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Still, you shouldn't have fought, especially without telling me. You remember what happened to Antonius when he snuck off and hid during the siege of Ilerda?"

Aurelius paled, nodding. Rome resisted the urge to comfort him. "I've half a mind to lash you, but I think the broken ribs are enough." He patted the bandaged sternum lightly and Aurelius winced. Rome smothered a chuckle and stood. "I need to report to Iulius. Rest, and don't try getting out of bed."

Aurelius called out just before he reached the tent flat. "Who won?"

Rome shook his head. "Given that our camp's not over-run, I'll let you figure that out." Aurelius made a face; Rome returned it and left.

A decisive victory, marred only by an over-eager son. He tried not to dwell on how the day could've ended, with dead or captured commanders, his sons, himself. He couldn't decide how Pompey would treat him, if the general would try to punish him for his involvement with Iulius. He wasn't sure how _he'd _react to Pompey. He could still feel that nervous tugging in the back of his mind, reminding him that Iulius was flying in the face of tradition, that Pompey had the backing of the Senate. Pompey wasn't fully on the right of the law though either—ordering Iulius to disband his Gallic legions before his term as governor was up, forbidding him to run for consul in absentia. The people were the trump card here—his citizens were for Iulius, and he used that knowledge of counter the nagging voice for Pompey.

He longed for the day when he didn't have to debate it.

He met with Iulius, the man flushed with victory, his sombre visage briefly lifted. He related the cavalry's role in the battle and praised the imperator for the fourth line genius, and shared word of Aurelius's adventures. The smile slipped during the retelling, and Rome's own spirits dropped as Iulius's frown deepened.

"Romulus—"

"Iulius. You're giving me that look. I know a war camp isn't for children. I'm not sending them away."

The commander shook his head. "Do you realize how fortunate you are? Imagine if Antonius had tried the same—"

"I _won't_, if it's all the same to you," Rome scowled, sending a slave for wine. "Come now, Iulius, don't do this, we just won a major battle! Have we gotten word from Pompey?"

Iulius held his gaze, debating, and let it go. "Not directly, but it appears that he's fled the camp with his family."

"Ha! That explains the poor defense of the camp itself." Rome accepted the cup and took a long drink, sighing. "We'll pursue him then. Where' he headed?"

Iulius shrugged. "No one can say for certain, possible the eastern kingdoms, but indications suggest Aegyptus."

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Aegyptus? Aren't they in the midst of their own internal dispute?"

"They are."

"He's desperate…" Rome sat back on the sofa, musing. He hoped Pompey had enough sense to avoid that trap. The senator never would though. He'd seek out the stronger of the two Aegyptian sides and offer to back them once his own position was secure. And once he was in power, he'd back out and leave Aegyptus to crumble, until the African empire recovered enough to get even. Rome relayed these thoughts to Iulius and drained his cup.

Iulius nodded. "Seems likely. How do you think Aegyptus will respond?"

"Hard to say. I don't know much about the king and queen, aside from the face that they're family. Their whole conflict is sibling rivalry writ large."

"And the empire?"

"We've never met. Aegyptus is a woman; she's older than I am, and that's about the extent of my knowledge. She's rumoured to be much removed. Hard to get audience with. Formal." Not his idea of a party. Gods only knew how she was handling the political chaos.

"We'll see if the rumours are true." Iulius stood; Rome heard an audible crack. He gave the general a look, standing as well. The commander huffed, "I need to review then men, and visit the medical tent."

Rome caught him by the shoulder when he tried to pass. "Promise me you'll rest after."

"Romulus, there are things to which I must attend—" he began, trying to push past.

"Chief of which is your health," Rome stated, holding firm. "Rest after."

Iulius rolled his eyes but conceded. Rome watched him go, brow creased. He didn't used to creak like that. He called for more wine; a servant appeared, refilling the cup and vanishing, leaving him alone. He returned to the sofa, cup in one hand, chin propped on his fist. He stared at the map, nursing his wine until the lamps burned low. He was gone by the time Iulius returned.

-o-

Mostly done with the Caesar's Civil War now. Next up: Egypt! Cleopatra, chariot races, boating trips down the Nile, weird pseudo-family arrangements!

Feel free to leave comments, critiques, and questions! Also, if you like this fic and think you know others who might as well, please pass it along via the social media tool of your choice~ See you soon!


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